


Take These Broken Wings

by aladyindarkshadows



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castiel is sort of an angel but there's no hunting, Dean Has Panic Attacks, Dean's usual self-loathing, F/F, F/M, M/M, Past Prostitution, past dubious consent, the one where Cas comes out of a painting naked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aladyindarkshadows/pseuds/aladyindarkshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long separation, Dean moves to his brother's town. Though he tries to fix things, he's just too broken by the past. He can only confide in a painting of an angel with broken wings and blue eyes... A cursed painting that one day releases its occupant. With the growing bond between Dean and Castiel, and Sam's determination to help his brother, maybe all that's broken can finally be healed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, I can't believe this is finally posted. This is my first time participating in the Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, and it's been quite the wild ride. Huge thank yous go to my betas, [loverofwingsandcoffee](http://loverofwingsandcoffee.tumblr.com) and [boyswithbowsandarrows](http://boyswithbowsandarrows.tumblr.com)! And my deepest thanks go to [ lyrial](http://lyrial.tumblr.com) for the amazing art! Working with her was a dream.

Sam was sitting at his desk flipping through a magazine Jess wanted him to look at when he heard it. Between the music from the radio and Jess in the kitchen chatting on the phone with her mother it was very faint, but he’d recognise the sound of that engine anywhere. He stood and went to the front window. Sure enough, there it was: the family car, a 1967 Chevy Impala.

His whole childhood had been spent in that car. John Winchester dragged his boys from one side of the country to the other and back again in it. When things were good Dean said it was to provide for the family that Dad kept moving. That the money capturing and returning bail jumpers was good. In the bad times, when even Dean couldn’t deny how rotten their lives were, he said it was the grief of losing Mom that kept Dad moving. It was too painful for him to stand still and they needed to be there for him.

Dean might have actually believed that. He could remember their mother and what it was like when she was alive. Sam couldn’t. He only knew the constant pain and loneliness of always being the “new kid” in school. He had to work three times harder than any student just to keep up because of his fragmented education. But he had done it. Thanks to a few kind teachers along the way, Sam realised that college was the shining light at the end of the tunnel. It meant being an adult on his own and in charge of his own future for the first time in his life. It meant at least four years in one place. It meant an uninterrupted education. It meant actual friends he could keep for more than a few months.

The last time he had seen that car had been the night he left for Stanford. Most fathers would have burst with pride to have a son get into the prestigious university with a full scholarship. John had burst a blood vessel. The fight had lasted for hours. John wanted his sons to work with him chasing down scumbags like the one that killed his wife. Sam tried to reason with his dad, telling him his plans of becoming a lawyer and getting the bad guys that way. But John didn’t listen. He screamed about the injustice of the system, how lawyers undid the work of cops and twisted the truth until it was a broken mess of rhetoric. Sam countered that maybe he could do some good and turn things around. John continued to rage. Had it been like any other argument Dean would have stepped in to make peace between them. But that time was different. He had been silent while John verbally took a baseball bat to Sam’s dreams. So Sam had left. If they wanted to mend the relationship then they would have to make the first move.

“Is that him?”

Sam turned to look at Jess. “How’s your mother? Still having problems with the… What was it again?”

“Dishwasher, and no, it’s fixed. Now stop stalling and welcome your brother in here.”

Sam ducked his head; Jess always saw right through him. It was part of why he loved her so much. When he opened the front door and stepped out on the porch, Dean was pulling his bag from the car. He looked up at Sam while approaching the front steps.

“All that time by the ocean and you decide you hate water?” Dean asked. “This is middle of nowhere godforsaken desert.”

“An hour's drive from Phoenix is not the middle of nowhere.” Sam huffed and glared at him.

Dean smirked. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam answered automatically. And just like that they were smiling. “Come on in.”

Dean barely crossed the threshold before Sam was pulling his older brother into a tight hug.

“C’mon, Sammy, don’t turn this into a Hallmark special.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jess said. “No one here has any sort of terminal illness, I’m not secretly pregnant, and there’s no serial killer loose in town, so we’re safe for now.”

Sam laughed. “Uh Dean, this is my fiancée Jess. Jess, this is Dean.”

Dean held out a hand but Jess pulled him into a hug. “With how much Sam talks about you, I feel like you’re already my big brother too.”

“He talks about me that much?” Dean asked with genuine surprise.

“Never shuts up. I was expecting Superman to walk in the door.”

“I’m no Superman,” Dean muttered.

“You were that one time,” Sam cut in before Dean could say anything more self-deprecating, “and you’re family, so that means more.”

“You really mean that, Sammy?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“Should I put dinner on hold and let you two catch up for a bit?” Jess asked.

Dean hesitated. The smell of the lasagne and garlic bread filled the house and was no doubt calling to the older Winchester. His stomach gave a loud growl.

Sam laughed. “Maybe we should eat first and save this man from starving to death.”

“Shut up,” Dean replied but happily followed them into the kitchen and to the table.

Food was put out and passed around. Dean made faces at the large portion of salad Sam took, but he didn’t comment. He had his own plate heaped with the baked pasta dish and a large piece of garlic bread to keep him happy.

“So why Arizona?” Dean asked.

“Kind of a long story,” Sam answered.

“One of Sam’s professors had an uncle who was retiring and wanted to get rid of his practice, but since the professor didn’t want to leave teaching he gave it to his best and most favourite pupil,” Jess summarized. “Plus my family is scattered around Arizona, Nevada, and Southern California. It keeps us close but not in their backyard close.”

“Okay, not that long,” said Sam.

“Do you really get that many criminals out here?” asked Dean. “Illegal immigrants I can see, but with being so far out of the city drunk and disorderly seems the most…” He trailed off.

“I don’t practice criminal law,” replied Sam. “I thought I wanted it, but mostly it was trying to make Dad happy. Since I didn’t have a chance at doing that, and I discovered I liked business and property law more, I switched.”

Dean frowned. “He was proud of you.”

“Dean…”

“No, Sam, he was. In his way…”

“See, there it is. You always made excuses for him. You don’t have to anymore.”

“What, because he’s dead? You think I’m gonna stop treating him with the respect he deserves as our father?”

“The guy was a fucking hypocrite!” Sam yelled. “He was so determined to get the criminals back in jail that he didn't care he was running credit card scams that should put him right in there with them. He didn't respect the law that meant so much to him, let alone his family, so he doesn't deserve any respect for himself.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Maybe I do!”

“Stop it, both of you,” Jess said. “Family means more, remember? Despite what either of you felt about your dad, you guys are still brothers. You're still family.”

Sam let out a deep breath. “Yeah. I know. It’s just still a bit of a sore wound.”

“You and me both,” Dean said.

“How… how are you holding up?” Sam asked slowly.

“It’s been more than a year,” Dean replied as if it clarified everything.

“Yeah, almost eighteen months since Dad died. Nearly eighteen months and you break years of silence to get back in touch.”

“Hey, you were the one that just up and aband…”

“Family!” Jess yelled out again. “This isn’t the time for this fight. It’s not that both of you don’t need to have a long talk to heal old wounds—because you do—but it’s the first time you guys are together in years. Can we just have a pleasant meal before you two pull out the emotional stun guns and hand grenades?” They mumbled an agreement. “Thank you. And I want to say that, Dean, we are very happy to have you here staying with us for a while.”

“Do you know how long you’ll stay?” Sam asked. The question hung in the air like a pendulum blade swinging closer with each second's stroke.

“I don't know,” Dean answered. Sam had been expecting a quick but vague answer of a few days, maybe a week or two, or just until the money runs out. Dean shifted uncomfortably under Sam's gaze. He naturally broke the tension with a joking smirk. “Want to get rid of me already?”

“No, Dean! I don’t want… I don’t want that.”

“We want you to stay as long as you like,” Jess said.

“C'mon. You don't really want me hanging around forever and interrupting your love life.”

“We’ll get you headphones,” Jess answered.

“I like her,” Dean said to Sam. “But I won’t be in your hair long. And speaking of that, what’s up with the Point Break look? Dude, give me five minutes with some scissors…”

“Dean!” Sam glared at his brother to get him off the topic.

The conversation turned to more mundane things about Sam and Jess's jobs, what the neighbourhood was like, the weather, and so on. When the meal was done Jess refused to let the brothers help her clean up. She handed them each a beer and sent them to the back deck to talk.

As they settled into the deck chairs, Sam was uncertain how to proceed. He decided to let Dean make the first move.

“You've got a nice place here, Sammy.”

“Yeah. It's been good.”

“I get that. Maybe it's not so bad. Better desert heat than shovelling snow, right?”

“Yeah. Dean, are you…”

“What?” Dean asked when Sam stopped mid-sentence.

“Nothing.” Sam shook his head.

“Listen, Sam. I've been thinking. Maybe Dad's way of life isn't for me. Maybe I'm sick of living like I have, sick of the shit cramped motels, sick of moving all the time. Maybe I want to put down some roots, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that. Are you thinking of moving near here?” Sam tried not to sound too eager; he failed miserably. He couldn't stop thinking how great it would be to have his brother back permanently in his life again.

“It's not a bad spot. But don't get too excited. I'll need to find a place and then a job.”

“I can introduce you to Bobby! He has an auto repair shop and junkyard. Maybe he's got some work for you. That is if you still like working on cars. And seriously, there's no rush for you to leave. I like you here. I've missed you.”

“And I've missed you. I missed out on so much; I don't want to miss you getting married too. That's big stuff. I should be here for you.”

There was a long pause before Sam spoke. “Look, man, I’m sorry. I could have done more to stay in touch. Hell, I didn’t even try.”

“You were busy studying.”

“No, I was angry at Dad and took it out on you too. So just accept my apology. Can you forgive me?”

“Invite me over for more dinners as delicious as this one and I’ll have to,” Dean joked.

“There’s still dessert,” Jess suddenly yelled from the kitchen. “I’ve got an apple pie ready and waiting.”

“Dude, Sammy, you got yourself an angel! And one hell of an eavesdropper.”

“Yeah, sure Dean,” Sam said sarcastically as they went inside. “Just because she made pie Jess is part of the heavenly host. Isn't eavesdropping a ticket to Downstairs though?”

“Hey!” Jess said and swatted his arm. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute.”

“He’d be cuter with shorter hair,” said Dean.

“Let it go,” Sam griped.

* * *

 

Sam slammed his hand on the alarm clock. Jess mumbled and turned over beside him as he got out of bed. She was used to his early morning running routine. He was dressed and just putting in his earbuds when he walked into the kitchen and saw Dean sitting at the table with a book.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks.

After a moment Dean noticed him and looked up. “Woke up, couldn't go back to sleep,” he explained. “I made some coffee.”

“Dude, are you _reading_?”

“Yeah.”

“You. You are reading a book. With words.”

“Yeah.” Dean bobbed his head in a 'duh' fashion. “What? Am I not _allowed_ to like books?”

“No, that's not… I've just never known you to pick up a book on your own.”

“Well, Sammy, there's a lot of things you don't know about me.” Sam was about to apologise, but Dean cut him off. “What are _you_ doing up anyways?”

“I go running every morning.” He hesitated a moment. “You could come with me.”

“Running? The only time I'm running is if something is chasing me, or if I'm chasing it. Running just for the hell of it is fucking nuts.”

“Right.” Sam smiled. That was much more like the brother he remembered.

A thousand thoughts were bouncing around Sam's head as his legs pounded on the familiar streets and paths. Just around dawn in the desert was the perfect time for exercise. The temperature was still cool and the light slowly changed everything from blue and purple into pink and orange. Usually Sam liked running because it was a way to empty his head, drain out all thoughts until he needed to start the day. But today his brain wouldn't shut up no matter how hard his legs worked.

Somehow he had expected Dean to be exactly the same as always. Throughout his childhood that was the one thing he could count on with Dean. His older brother had been a rock that Sam clung to while their father uprooted them time and time again. Everything around them changed. Dad's mercurial moods, the endless parade of different motel rooms, the vast array of contrasting climates. But Dean, he never altered. From his tastes in food and music to his choice in a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Dean was completely predictable. Steady. Safe.

Now reality was hitting Sam hard in the face. Sure they had the same old argument, but Dean had changed, and it was Sam's fault. Time may have done it, but it was his fault for never contacting his brother. Sweat and guilt seemed to drip from every pore of his being. Sweat could be washed away in a shower, but Sam wondered if he could ever clean himself of the guilt.

When he walked back into the kitchen after his run, Dean was moving from the stove to the table and Jess was sitting there smiling. The whole room smelled of bacon and sweet cinnamon.

“You're back!” she greeted. “I was just saying to Dean that if he makes a habit of having a breakfast like this ready when I get up he's not going anywhere.”

“Got a plate right here for you too, Sammy. Unless you wanna go wash off that manly stink first.”

“I'll be quick,” Sam said.

“It'll keep,” Dean shouted after him as he ran upstairs.

When Sam came back down Jess had finished her breakfast and Dean was stuffing his face with eggs.

“Yours is in the oven under the foil,” Jess said. “I gotta go run some errands. Try not to blow up the house while I'm gone.”

Sam watched her leave and took a deep breath before retrieving his plate and joining Dean at the table. He smiled when he realised that Dean had prepared one of Sam's favourites. There were even vegetables poking through his omelette, and the French toast covered with a dusting of cinnamon had been made with his whole grain bread.

“Thanks man,” Sam said. Dean simply nodded in reply. “So we should talk some more.”

“Sam…”

“No, Dean, I need to apologise.”

“That's not…”

“Don't give me any of your 'no chick-flick' crap. I feel awful about how things happened between us, and that's not going to go away any time soon. Maybe not ever. I don't know. I just know that I really want us to be brothers again.”

“That's why I'm here, Sammy.” Dean's voice was gruff with emotion. “You did what you had to do. It's not all on you. I never came to visit; I never tried to contact you either. It's on me too, okay? It's not all on you.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded slowly. He agreed more in hope than actual feeling. Fake it till you make it, right? “Okay. Um… how do we start?”

“How about telling me how the hell you scored a chick that awesome? She is way too good for you.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, we can start there. So I was sitting in this class…”

* * *

 

Dean devoted a week to Sam and Jess, just hanging out and helping around the house. Sam still had to work, but he'd come home and find the faucet in the downstairs half bath wasn't leaking any more. The third step of the staircase stopped creaking. The side gate no longer banged open and shut with a heavy breeze. They were all minor projects that Sam was going to get to eventually when he had the time. It was typical Dean behaviour just to take care of them himself. His brother liked keeping busy.

Sam ended up sharing almost everything that had happened in his life since he left for college. It wasn't until he started running low on stories that he realised he still didn't know much of anything about what happened to Dean and John. Sam tried asking, but Dean always avoided answering. Sam let him. While trying the direct approach sometimes worked, most times it was better to piece together Dean's actions rather than rely on words. Every time Dean displayed a new skill or understanding of something it was a new piece of the puzzle.

Dean looked like he was serious about staying in the area. Sam would have time enough to solve the mystery puzzle of his brother's past.


	2. The House

_Heavy smoke from machines and cigars. Pulsing, beating music pulling through darkness to the blinding spotlight on undulating bodies. Cold wet concrete drilling into his knees as he choked for breath. Writhing liquid serpents stretching down his neck, wrapping around and squeezing._

Dean woke to a sweat soaked bed. He threw off the covers and sat up. He looked to the clock's glaring green digits and rubbed his face. It was just after four, and there was little hope of going back to sleep. Instead he stood and put on some clothes. Sam would be getting up for his run soon. Dean left the guest room and headed for the kitchen.

Being more familiar with the layout Dean decided to use the extra time to bake muffins for breakfast. He gathered the ingredients and started mixing. He was just putting the first round in the oven when Sam came in heading for the back door.

“Dude, you bake?” He looked around at the measuring cups and bowls. “From scratch?”

“Yup.”

Dad had been chasing a bail-jumper in the middle of literally nowhere Montana. There was no motel to stay at, so they were forced to stay at the area's only B&B. Running credit card scams at motels was easy, so John thought they could pull the same with the elderly couple running the place. Of course it didn't work. The Lincolns were smart, but they were also kind. They came to Dean and said they'd let the whole thing go if he helped around the place while John was out looking for his guy. Dean was already good at basic handyman stuff; he liked fixing things. But that spring he learned a lot more–including cooking and baking.

While Dean was remembering the Lincolns fondly, Sam had left. Dean would have to tell his little brother about them one day. For now he was focused on making the perfect blueberry muffins.

Dean had enjoyed spending some time with Sam and Jess. He'd missed his little brother. But he was also getting antsy for his own place. They might be fine with him invading their space, but he wanted his privacy back. As soon as they left for work he had plans to go find the man Sam had mentioned could help him with a job.

It was a small town so locating Singer's Garage wasn’t difficult. Right when he opened the car door Dean was hit with the familiar smells of tires, metal, and oil. There wasn't anyone in the office just then, so he opened the door into the garage and looked around. A man with a rough beard and a gruff demeanour looked to be finishing giving instructions to a pretty redhead. The girl saluted and gave a “yes sir” before walking past Dean and into the office. Dean took a long look while the door closed behind her. She was definitely fitting into the cute category. A bit nerdy by the tee-shirt, but definitely cute.

“You're barking up the wrong tree,” the man said as he wiped his brow and replaced his ballcap. “You ain't her type.”

“How do you know?” Dean asked cheekily with a smug grin.

“You've got a penis.” He nodded towards the parked impala that was visible through the front of the garage. “She giving you trouble?”

“Not a lick,” Dean answered proudly.

The man gave her and Dean a long, hard look. “You that familiar with her?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean answered, slightly stumbling over the words. “Know her better than anything, inside and out. Once had a bad accident. Real bad. I practically had to rebuild her from the frame up. Listen, if you're Bobby, I'm actually here looking to see if you're hiring.”

“I'm Bobby, and I ain't hiring. Got too many working here, to tell the truth. But times are tough and cars keep breakin' down. I know a guy in Albuquerque though that might like your talents if the black beauty out there is your résumé.”

“Sorry. I appreciate it, but the work has to be here.”

“New to town and you don't have a job? That's risky. Why here?”

“Family. So I need a place and a job here.”

Bobby grabbed two chairs from a desk at the side of the garage. He motioned for Dean to sit down and grabbed two colas from a cooler. “Get the feeling there's a story there, son. Don't worry; I won't make you spill your guts. I'm not stupid. But if you want help I need something to go on.”

Dean grimaced slightly but hid it behind the beer can. “What do you want to know?”

“Got a name?”

“Dean.”

“Well Dean, where'd you get a sweet car like that in the first place?”

“It was my dad's. He bought it just after he married my mom. Gave it to me when I turned eighteen. He said a truck was more practical for his work.”

“Your folks still living?”

“No. Mom died when we were little, and my dad passed a little over a year ago.”

“Who's we?”

“Just me and my little brother Sam.”

“Sam Winchester?” Dean nodded. Bobby continued. “Yeah, I know Sam. Wouldn't exactly call him little though. Good kid, good lawyer. Helped me out against a bit of a jam with a government man with a grudge. The bonehead blamed his own stupidity on everyone else, and Sam got the whole thing sorted with barely a few pennies out of my pocket for his fee.”

“Sam's the best,” Dean said proudly.

“Well listen. I don't know what you're looking for, but I've got a place I want to get rid of cheap. It's a house, big but a bit run down. No one around here will buy it, and I sure as hell don't want it. I inherited it from my great aunt. Horrible woman. I hated her; everyone hated her. It's part of why no one wants the house.”

“But I never knew her so maybe I could take it,” Dean finished for him.

“Yeah, that's about it. You interested?”

“Sure. Beggars and choosers and all that. I've worked construction before so fixing it up might be fun.”

“I don't have the keys on me, but I could give you directions to at least see what you're getting into before you commit. You might not even need the keys to get in. Trust me, the price will be cheap. If you are crazy enough to still want it, give me a call here and we'll talk price and paperwork.”

“Sounds great. It's one half of what I need, at least.”

“Give me a little time and we may get you a job too. Charlie has been on me about expanding so something might turn up for you soon. If you got references.”

“You are seriously a saint right now, Bobby.”

“Eh, shut up ya idjit.”

Dean walked out of the garage with a smile on his face and the directions in his hands.

The drive wasn't too long. It had some curves and bends to watch out for in any especially wet weather, and part of it was up a small plateau. The flat area was mostly bare but had a wide view of the town just below. The house was on the far side of the plateau. It seemed like Bobby's great aunt didn't like the town just as much as they didn't like her.

Dean looked at the house. “Well I see the problem, Bobby. You're selling the casa de Norman Bates.”

It wasn't the same exact house, but it was eerily similar. It was the same Old West Victorian architecture that had inspired the movie. At least it wasn't on a slanting hill. The ground was parched with scattered weeds and the few trees were in sad condition. The paint was peeling off the sides of the house if it was there at all. One of the steps up to the porch was completely caved in and three others were splitting and ready to join it. Most of the windows were broken—probably kids throwing rocks. Not even inside and Dean could see several days—if not weeks—of work. It was a small blessing to see the door in decent enough repair.

Bobby was right about not needing keys to get in. The door was firmly locked, and Bobby had probably meant for him to get in by one of the smashed windows, but Dean was handy with a lockpick. The old tumblers quickly surrendered to his deft hands.

Dean stepped inside and immediately noticed a ten degree rise in temperature. It could only mean the place had no proper insulation. There was dirt and dust and cobwebs over everything, but structurally it all looked sound. The remnants of décor certainly said “dead great aunt.” The pealing wallpaper would have to go. The carpet and tiled floors would need a lot of work, but just replacing them altogether with new tile and hardwood would be easy enough. The wiring and plumbing would all have to be updated. The fifties stove and oven could stay, but the rest of the kitchen needed to be redone completely.

Upstairs was in a similar state. He’d have to clean out some wildlife before thinking of moving in, but he liked the basic shape of things. The house had a skeleton that he was eager to dress.

* * *

 

That evening Sam joined Dean in the garage of the Winchester-Moore house. Dean was giving Sam's car a tune up after hearing that the engine sounded a little off. It seemed as good a time as ever to tell Sam what he had been doing that day.

"You're thinking of buying Stella Singer's house? The Bates' Motel?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Dude, it's the house not the motel. Didn't you pay any attention to the movie? Plus, there's a lot different. I can't wait to restore the east bay window. It's gonna be awesome! The movie didn't have one of those."

“No, what it's missing is a corpse in the basement and you wearing an old lady's clothes.”

“Fuck you.”

"Don't argue details, Dean. You bought a total wreck of a house. How are you going to afford fixing it up? And if you've got a job when are you going to have the time? You'd have to hire workers and be living in a big mess." Sam was setting a new record for a disappointed bitch face.

"Well, I've got some money put away."

"Really?" From Sam's tone you'd think that Dean had just said Clint Eastwood was a tattooed hermaphrodite escaped from a Hungarian circus troupe before he started acting.

"Yeah, really. I'd been saving a college fund for you, but you ran off with a full scholarship. After that I thought I'd spend the money putting Dad into a rehab clinic. That never happened, and by then I was just used to saving so I never really stopped. So yeah, I've got plenty to fix up the house and then find a job. Maybe Bobby will have something by then."

That definitely left Sam speechless. But only for a moment. "You saved? How?"

"Odd jobs and pool hustling. How else?" he asked defensively.

"There's no need to snap," Sam responded. "I just never knew. How did I not notice?"

"It wasn't your job to notice."

"But it was yours to do all that?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Hey!" Jess called. "You guys ready to eat?"

The conversation met a swift end and Dean did his best to avoid it coming up again. If Sam wanted to bitch and moan he had a fiancée for that. There was no doubt that his brother would be ranting as soon as he got her alone. But Dean didn't care too much. Despite what Sam thought Dean knew what he was doing and was excited to do it. His mind was made up. It was a good house that needed some love and he was ready to give it.


	3. The Painting

The next day Dean avoided his brother until Sam left for work. Dean didn't want his brother to lawyer talk or puppy dog look him out of buying the house. Jess tried to be supportive, but she wouldn't say what her opinion on the matter was. She just insisted that it was Dean's choice and then offered to help with whatever he needed. She also mentioned a Habitat for Humanity Re-store just a half hour away that he might like to check out.

Dean called Bobby and they met at the bank during Bobby's lunch hour. Money and keys changed hands and Dean was officially a home owner.

He spent a week cleaning out dirt and vermin, gutting carpet and unwanted drywall. Then there was a parade of inspectors and making a list of priorities. The list immediately after that was of all the things he'd need. Either Bobby really liked Dean, or he owed a huge debt to Sam, because Bobby had instructed Dean to come by the scrap yard and see if there was anything more useful in a house than a car. He had said that it was just trash to him anyways so Dean should grab some stuff for free.

Dean waited in the auto shop office. The cheery cute redhead greeted him.

"I'm Charlie," she said.

"Dean," he replied. “I gotta be honest. When Bobby mentioned a Charlie I didn't figure it would be you.”

"Normally a person would say, 'I get that a lot.' But this is a small town and everyone already knows me, so I don't. The boss man will be here in just a few minutes. How do you feel about Star Wars?"

Dean suddenly felt like he was taking an exam in school. "Uh, awesome and Han shot first."

She nodded. "Good answer. Ever been LARPing?"

"What?"

"Ignore her," said Bobby as he walked in the office. "It's some nutty costume geek thing."

"Live action role playing the kingdom of Moondoor is not nutty!"

"Well ain't you the pretty princess," Bobby teased.

"Queen, actually, and I fight my own battles, thank you very much. But Dean, you should seriously come. It's awesome."

"Don't you have work to be doing?" Bobby groused.

"The numbers are in, the emails have been gone through, Garth is due in soon, so no. Not really. But you should be seeing to Miss 'Bossyboots' Naomi Carter's Toyota."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Then you can take Dean out back. There's a fixed up junker of a truck you can borrow to haul the stuff. Fill the tank for me in gratitude."

"Hey, Bobby, while we're out there could I maybe..."

"Take shit to play dress up? Sure. Just get out of here already."

"So should I call you your majesty?" Dean asked while they walked outside.

"If you plan on becoming a subject of Moondoor, you better."

"How do you even know I'm into that sort of thing?"

"Because you haven't said you're not. Plus not calling it nerdy. And then there's your face. I could totally tell you thought it was cool. You want to dress in armor and carry a sword."

Dean made a lopsided shrugging motion, but he didn't deny it. "So what are you hoping to find in a junkyard?"

"Anything, really. I'm also into steampunk. Refurbishing crap, punking it up, and selling it online is nice for a little extra cash. You? Anything in particular you’re hoping to find?"

"A few things maybe. Dunno."

They ended up spending most of the morning sorting through rubbish. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so much or nerded so hard. Charlie had a way of pulling out his inner geek. By the time they were done she made him swear to let her set up his internet and WiFi.

"I've got a brother who could do that," he tried to protest.

"Did he go to MIT?"

"No, but he’s got this way with getting a signal _everywhere_."

"Getting a signal and setting one up are two different things. Respect to his mojo, but I'm doing it."

Dean caved to the pout on her face. Dean might have been able to take Sam's bitch faces and puppy eyes, but Charlie's pout was too new to be immune to. Besides, she was now a good friend. They had exchanged numbers and had an arrangement to meet at her place for a Firefly marathon. He could tell she'd probably ask to hold a house warming party for him as soon as he was settled enough. He'd never had a real friend like her before. It was nice.

Charlie rode in the truck with him since he'd been rather successful in his finds. She helped with the first round into the house and then disappeared. If there weren't the squeaks and exclamations of glee echoing around he might have worried that something had happened to her. Fortunately, he was able to unload the truck quickly and with ease on his own. He walked back into the house when he was done.

"So what do you think?" He yelled.

"This place is so cool!" Her head appeared over the second story banister. "Dude, I just found the attic and it is filled with stuff."

Dean followed her up the stairs to a half hidden back staircase. If the house had been in good condition the attic would be impossible to find. At the end of the hall were slatted French doors: one opening to a closet, the other leading to the attic stairs. But because the doors were half off their hinges he had already discovered the entrance to attic. He knew about the large cache of crates and furniture and planned to go through it eventually. Turned out that eventually was sooner than he thought. Charlie looked ready to burst with excitement.

"Look at all this," she said.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Go on, you find anything super girly and it's yours."

"What if it isn't super girly but I want it anyways?"

"Run it by me first."

"You got it. How are you not super psyched right now?"

"I don’t have floors down or paint up. Why would I be hauling down furniture? I thought I’d wait. Does something feel off about this room?" There was a feeling of not being alone in the room, like someone was watching them, but he didn't want to describe it in too much detail for fear Charlie might go a little too Ghostbusters on him.

"Nope. Why?"

"Nothing."

Together they pulled back sheets and opened crates. While the things that had been left behind downstairs were a mix from the last few decades, all of these things seemed to be from the previous century.

"Check out this phonograph," Charlie called.

"If it works it's mine," Dean shouted back.

"Spoil sport. Oh dear, I think it's broken."

“Still mine.”

“Dammit.”

Dean moved past a stack of boxes when he caught sight of a sheet with frames poking out. There were several oil painted landscapes and town scenes from various areas of the country: the Hudson River, Pennsylvania farmland, an Ohio rail station, a Louisiana bayou, and all sorts of desert areas. There were a few portraits of different sizes, but then there was one that didn't fit with any of the others.

The style was European Renaissance unlike the undeniably American others. It was a man standing on a desolate field with a lighting storm in the background. Trailing behind the man was a pair of black wings that looked like they were being taken and blown away in the wind. But he just stood there with one hand around a sword pointed into the ground, cracks emanating from the tip. The man was nude except for some strategically placed billowing cloth. He was incredibly beautiful, body and face. The feature that struck Dean most was the eyes. Blue eyes. Sad and lonely, but at the same time determined and defiant.

It wasn't Dean's style, but he knew he wanted the painting somewhere he could see it often. Though he had a thing against angels in general, he would make an exception for this fallen one.

"Woah, cool art," Charlie said. Dean hadn't even heard her come up behind him. "Are you thinking about hanging any of it?"

"This one," Dean answered while indicating to Angel Blue Eyes. "He's going in the living room."

"Totally random old painting of an unknown naked dude hanging over the fireplace. Classy."

"Shut up."

Charlie just laughed, but Dean still stared at the painting.

* * *

 

Dean spent three weeks working on his house before he moved out of Sam and Jess' place. He knew the work would go faster with more help, but he didn't want it. He did have some help on weekends from Sam and Jess. Charlie came for a few hours on her days off. But there wasn't much rush. The weather remained consistent and Dean's savings were far from being depleted.

Dean decided not to hang the painting in any of the public living areas in the house. Instead he placed the fallen angel in his bedroom. Rather than it being creepy, the painting felt like a roommate. The house didn't seem as empty.

Dean was installing new switch covers one afternoon when he heard the distinctive sound of Sam knocking on the front door. Setting aside his tools, Dean went to let his brother in.

"How's it going?" Sam asked.

"Great. Just redoing the switch covers. Had of a hell of a fight with Charlie over it. She wanted to put in some new high tech thing with a remote and a bunch of gears, but I'm happy with something simple."

"You and Charlie have been hanging out a lot lately."

"Yeah, she's great. Makes a great wingman too. You should have come with us to the bar out in Terrance. It was fucking awesome."

"Not really into the bar scene anymore. I'm engaged and gonna be married soon."

"Doesn't mean you can't come out for a few drinks and fun. You both could come. Just to the Roadhouse for beers and pool."

"Maybe." Sam looked around as Dean led him into the main living area. Dean had looked up the official name, and apparently it was a drawing room. There were a few pieces of furniture and still room for more. "This is a huge place for just you. I mean what are you going to do with all this space? Isn't it excessive?"

"Maybe, but I'm really starting to love it."

"But it's gotta be costing a lot of money."

"Nah, I found a whole load of good stuff in the attic, Bobby's given me free range of anything in his yard, plus the place Jess recommended has been great. Grabbed the perfect entertainment centre there. Plus I've got the coolest painting in my room. Where'd I find it? In the attic."

"Yeah, but still. This is just so much and you don't have any income right now."

"Dude, don't worry about it. I told you I've got loads saved."

"Loads? How much is that? Do you know how much this will cost to maintain? Dean, I'm worried that you don't realize what you've gotten yourself into. I mean how much could you have made hustling pool?"

Dean shifted. "Enough. Plus there was other work."

"What other work? Mechanics don't make much. Bounty hunting doesn't make much. Not enough for you to survive AND save large amounts. Dean..."

"Just drop it, Sam."

"But..."

"No. I said drop it. We're done talking about this. Got it?"

"Fine. We're done.” Sam stormed out of the room and soon there was the slam of the front door.

Dean grumbled underneath his breath for a few minutes. The anger didn't go away no matter how much he focused on working. Instead it stewed and simmered until it all boiled over just as he was retiring to bed.

"What are you looking at?" Dean asked the painting. "I've got my brother breathing down my neck; I don't need you staring at me like that too. He doesn't know how I saved so much money. If he knew how I made that money, money meant for his education, he would never speak to me again. This... This'll blow over soon as he cools down."

Dean turned out the light so the blue eyes weren't staring anymore.

* * *

 

Dean talking to the painting actually became a regular habit at the end of each day. It was just small at first, the occasional "hey" or what have you, the odd "I just finished..." this or that, and then it escalated to full monologues.

"So I think I'm done with the major structural work. Floors, roof, plumbing, electrical, insulation, and dry wall are all done. Now the work is just cosmetic. Jess thinks I should hire a decorator if only to have them sketch some different ideas. So now Charlie wants me to hire her to do some sci-fi crap. Okay, yeah some of it's pretty cool and would be nice. But no theme shit! I've been in more than my share of crap themed motel dumps. I just want something more traditional, I guess. Not floral or froofroo, but not the super minimalist or overly masculine man cave look either. I'm just a basic, normal guy, ya know?"

"So I explained things to Charlie, and she backed down and ended up really helping out. We went all over to different second hand places. I could probably afford new, but why bother? Second hand suits me just fine. Got a great retro thing going in the kitchen. Classic look, not too much but it's got some style. Bit old school diner. Can't wait to try out the oven and make some pie. Love pie."

“I was talking to Bobby. He said that if I hadn't come along when I did he was just going to tear this place down and sell the land. Can you fucking believe that? I mean, sure, _at first_ it reeked of old lady. Now it's stripped down to the basics and just a normal home. Okay, not completely normal. It's got my awesome in it after all! But it's fucked to think that if he did tear it down you might be in some dump somewhere. Kinda glad you're not.”

“Okay, the living room is kickass! Charlie said it should be called the drawing room, but what the hell is that crap? It's too awesome to have some weird old name like that. The couch I got, oh man is it beautiful! And comfortable. If I didn't have this memory foam mattress I'd be happy sleeping on that couch. The whole room just looks great. I got lucky with the entertainment centre. It came out perfect.”

“Bobby stopped by to see how things are going. He approves of all the interior work but then brought up the outside. Sure I've got the new roof, porch, and a fresh coat of paint over it all, but the landscaping is bare. I'm not really sure what to do with it. Plants aren't really my thing. I wouldn't know the first thing about starting. Plus, this is a desert. What grows in a fucking desert?”

"Fired up the oven today. Uh… well, the pie I planned didn't turn out. Burnt outside and raw inside. What can you do? Uh… nothing. You're a painting; you don't cook. And I'm talking to a painting." Dean ran a hand over his face.

He'd officially gone crazy. Dean decided to get out of the house for dinner. There was a diner in town that he had grabbed food from a few times. The pie there was pretty good.

He took a seat at the counter rather than take up a whole table or booth. The Mucky Moose was rather popular even with the competition from the Denney's on the other side of town, but the counter was currently empty.

"What can I get for you?" asked a man that seemed more likely to have evolved from a bear than the common simian ancestor. "Cause you look like a usual bacon cheeseburger kind of guy, but I think tonight you want something else. Am I right?"

"Damn, you're good. How'd you guess?"

"It's a look. Something just says ‘stop me from becoming a crazy cat lady.’"

"Seriously, are you psychic?"

"Just got good ears. You were muttering to yourself."

"Fuck. I am going crazy."

"Nah. All you need is a good meal and some human interaction. Lucky for you my shift is just about over, so I'll get you some grub and we can chat."

Dean coughed nervously. "Listen, I'm flattered but..."

"Relax. Just as friends. My wife's visiting her sister in Albuquerque right now and I don't want to go home to an empty house just yet. Just want some friendly companionship. I can even get them to throw the game on the TV."

"Sure, yeah, that sounds great."

"Name's Benny."

"Dean."

"Well Dean, give me two shakes and I'll get that grub for ya."

Benny returned a few minutes later with two of the most appetising bowls of jambalaya. He set them down and hopped over the counter to sit next to Dean. When Dean dug into the dish he was moaning at the wonderful taste filling his mouth.

Benny smiled. "It'd be better if we were closer to the water, but I've got a good dealer here."

"Why are you so far from the bayou?"

"My kid's got a condition that needs dry heat."

"There's plenty of that here."

"So what brings _you_ to this godforsaken patch of sand?"

"Family. I've got a brother that lives here."

"Blood is a powerful force. We dare everything for them."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Guess? Something the matter between you?"

"He doesn't approve of some of my decisions. I bought a house before getting a job, the house was a fixer upper, I still don't have a job, and I'm sure the list goes on. He sees me as nothing but a fuck up."

"He younger or older than you?"

"Younger."

"Yeah, he doesn't think you’re a fuck up. He looks up to you, so it's probably terrifying for him to see you in what he thinks is a precarious position."

"It's not as bad as he thinks. I've got a lot more money saved than he knows."

"Also part of family is worrying."

"Well, he shouldn't; that's my job."

"Doesn't work that way, my brother. There's no one person with a monopoly on caring."

Dean just nodded in a sort of noncommittal way. The two watched the game and talked, occasionally yelling at the ref, and by the end of it Dean had another friend in town. There was a promise of beer and pool at Harvelle's Roadhouse some other night before they went their separate ways.

As Dean walked out to his car a few large trucks rumbled down the street. The sky was clear, as usual, and the temperature was falling with the fading sunlight. He shrugged on his jacket and pulled the keys from the pocket. For a moment the hair on his neck stood on end, as if he was being watched. The sensation was familiar enough for Dean to scan the parking lot. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; he couldn't find what was disturbing him. Deciding it was nothing more than imaginative fancy, Dean got in the car and drove home.


	4. The New Client

Sam sat with Jess at the table looking over various table centrepieces for the wedding reception. The choice of roses versus lilies had been decided, now it was trying to narrow down the colours. To be honest, Sam didn’t see the problem with just making everything their theme colour, but he had gotten a lecture on colour theory and something about complementary and contrasting colours.

That’s when he decided the old fallback of nodding at anything she seemed passionate about would be best. Trying to come up with the right responding opinion was too risky. Unfortunately, Jess noticed his lack of attention.

“Did I pick the wrong Winchester brother?” she teased. “Maybe we should get Dean to help out. His taste in decorating his house at least is surprisingly fantastic for all his macho exterior.”

Sam just made an indifferent grunt.

“Still a sore subject?”

“It’s just…” Sam gave up on the sentence with a sigh. “I don’t know. Am I the only one who thinks that buying that place was a huge mistake?”

“Oh c’mon,” Jess argued. “It might have been unusual, a risk maybe, but I don’t think it’s a mistake. He’s got it all in hand. Plus, it’s made him really happy. He’s nearby, he’s happy, what’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Sam grumbled. “It’s just way too big for him, it’s way too expensive, he doesn’t have a job, so what the hell is he thinking?”

Jess didn’t answer; she flipped the page in a wedding magazine.

“And where’d he get all the money for this anyways?”

“Sam, you know I love you, so I say this with love. Butt out. It’s your brother’s business.”

“So I should just shut up and be happy he’s here?”

Jess frowned and shrugged her shoulders. Sam reached for the file of pictures of different types of place settings and folded napkins. He was comparing three of his favourites when he noticed Jess was staring at him.

She put a hand on his. “I know you worry because you love him. I don’t know Dean that well, but I do know you. You learned how to earn and save and spend money from someone. You learned that from Dean?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, so if you are so good with money—and considering our wedding budget, you are—and you learned from him, doesn’t it follow that he’s good too? So have a little faith and trust him.”

Sam turned his hand to hold hers while they continued to look through pictures.

“How can you think he has good taste?” Sam blurted out.

“C'mon, Sam. He's turned an old lady's house from a Victorian horror to a welcoming home. He has a good handle on classic style.”

Sam glared at her. “It probably wasn’t even him. I bet it was Charlie.”

“Do you think _she’d_ help me pick the colours?”

* * *

 

Though his brother's folly was never far from his mind, Sam continued his normal routine day to day. Business wasn't bad. Some new developers were in the area looking at property and every purchase had to go through his office. Sam was grabbing some paperwork from his secretary when a man he didn't recognise walked in through the front door. He was tall, not thin nor fat though he had a certain weight to his body. His blond hair had a receding line but he was well groomed and clean-shaven. There was something ordinary about his features, the sort of man that you might see in a doctor's office or on a real estate ad, but added with the way he carried himself there was no mistaking him for just ordinary. He commanded attention. If he was going to be a client then he would no doubt be a profitable one.

“Can I help you?” Sam asked with practised cheery eagerness.

“Uh yes. I understand these offices are handling the sale of the south east block on Miller's Court and Dorset Street?” The man had a drawling lilt to his voice, obviously a Southern accent; that would explain why Sam hadn't seen him before. Rumour was that at least one of the developers hailed from the southern states.

“The Smith and Brown warehouses, yes that's us. I'm afraid things are a bit busy at the moment, but Ava here can set up an appointment for you. That way we can have all the paperwork and information in hand for you, Mister...”

“Kemmler. Alastair Kemmler.” He offered his hand.

“Sam Winchester.” Sam had heard the descriptive phrase of 'cold and clammy' but he had never felt it in someone's hand. Cold, yes. Sweaty, yes. But never the two together. Not until he shook hands with Alastair Kemmler.

He was probably just imagining it. The air-conditioning vents in his car must have been pointing directly at his hands. It was normal to do so with the Arizona sun heating a car's steering wheel to Hell-like temperatures.

“Winchester,” Mr. Kemmler rolled the named slowly and with uncomfortable familiarity that made Sam tense. “Makes a mighty fine rifle.”

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a gun person.”

“Pity. Well, Mr. Winchester, I think I'll make that appointment and get out of your way. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Likewise.”

Sam retreated to his office and put the meeting out of his mind. There was no reason for it to linger in his memory. He had a small mountain of files still to sort, certain points of Arizona and federal laws to reread, and a massive amount of reports to fill out and file. He had a personal promise to himself not to bring any work home unless it was absolutely dire. The office was for work, and home was for focussing on Jess and the wedding.

So while he was working he wasn't thinking about how to approach Dean about being the best man. Sam wouldn't consider any other person for the job, but with the current tension between them he wasn't sure if Dean would accept. And while he was at home, Sam didn't think about the way Alastair's smile never reached his eyes, or how his presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn’t' think about how Alastair said the name Winchester, as if he knew him. Nope, he wasn't thinking about any of those things. He wasn't constantly turning them over and over again in his mind. He definitely wasn't so distracted that Jess noticed.

He was, however, a Winchester. Winchesters were good at being in denial.

Sam stewed in his thoughts for a few days until Alastair Kemmler walked into the office again. During the appointment the man was charm itself, and Sam wondered why his first impression of the southern gentleman was so negative. Alastair was earnest and eager to put up shop in the neighbourhood. Negotiations were quick and friendly, and a deal was soon struck. Sam's previous reservations were rationalised away. Winchester was a famous brand of gun, and the southern states had a reputation for being a little gun crazy. The polite smile of a first meeting didn't have to be absolutely genuine. Plus he had already considered that sweat plus air-conditioning equals cold and clammy. So what if he had never felt it before? Shaking the man's hand now, Sam didn't feel anything out of the ordinary. It was all a lot of worrying over nothing.

Sam walked Alastair out of the office and was surprised to see Dean chatting with his secretary. Correction: chatting up his secretary. This was Dean after all.

“Dean,” Sam greeted him. “What are you doing here?”

Dean looked towards them and his smile vanished. His eyes looked past Sam and at Alastair.

“Oh Alastair, this is my brother Dean. Dean, this is Alastair Kemmler. He's going to set up shop here. You know, I don't think you mentioned what you were going to do with the warehouses.”

“This and that,” Alastair said with a smile and his eyes still on Dean. “I thought about another nightclub, but this is a sleepy town and I'm focussing on the import-export side of business right now.”

Sam nodded but was also still staring at Dean's face. It was hard and closed. If Sam didn't know better, he'd have sworn that there was fear there.

“Well,” Alastair drawled. “I best be going. Boys.” He held up a hand as if tipping a hat that wasn't there and left.

“Dean,” Sam said. “Is something wrong? What are you doing here?”

“Can't I drop by and have lunch with my brother?” Dean asked. There was the familiar tone that meant Dean was lying through his ass about something and being over cheery to hide it.

“You haven't so far. And what was up with all that just now? Do you know Alastair?”

“No!”

“Dean, I can tell when you're lying.”

“Just drop it, Sammy. It's not important.”

“But Dean...”

“You know what, I totally forgot I have somewhere to be right now. I'll catch you later.” While Dean didn't slam the door on his way out, it did close with a definite snap.

“Um, Sam,” Ava said with hesitation. “Is your brother always so...”

“No, that was definitely weird. I just don't understand why. Anyways, I have the papers for Mr. Kemmler here for you to file.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Once again she was hesitating. “Does Mr. Kemmler… No, it's silly. Ignore me.”

“What?”

“I don't know. There's something about him that just gives me the creeps. Do you know what I mean?”

“Ava, we can't discuss clients in a disrespectful way.”

“Oh c'mon, Sam. Can you honestly look me in the eye and say that there isn't anything about him that gives you goosebumps?”

Sam paused and let out a sigh. “Yeah, you're right. I don't know what it is. I thought I was imagining it.”

“Me too! Listen, I know a client is a client and all that, but maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe there's a reason we both feel that way, and that your brother got so weird as soon as he saw him?”

“Maybe. Maybe I can look into it. I don't know. Just make sure those files...”

“On it, boss.”

* * *

 

“Whatever happened to leaving work at work?” Jess teased. Sam looked up from his laptop. After dinner he had grabbed his computer and started digging into the history of Alastair Kemmler. Just a simple Google search wasn't giving him any answers.

“I'm sorry, Jess,” he said. “It's just Dean came by—”

“So he did take you out to lunch?” Jess interrupted.

“Not quite. Wait. You knew about it?”

Jess looked a little sheepish. But only a little; he knew she delighted in meddling. “I might have been talking to him, yes. It's just you two are such idiots right now. All that talk of finally coming back together and being family, and you let one stupid argument push you apart again. So yeah, I stopped by and told Dean to just ignore your moaning about money and take you out to lunch.”

“I have not been moaning,” Sam protested.

“No, you've definitely been moaning, groaning, griping, grumbling, mumbling, and curmudgeoning since he told you he was buying that house.”

“Curmudgeoning? That's not even a word.”

Jess glared at him. “It is now. Anyways, tell me what happened today.”

Sam recounted the strange encounter between Alastair and Dean, as well as explaining his own shifting feelings about the new man in town. Then he apologised for spending the evening researching.

“Don't apologise,” Jess told him. “Follow your gut and do your stalker thing. I'd probably investigate this guy too. It does make me wonder, though, why you became a lawyer when really you'd make a great FBI agent.”

Sam rolled his eyes. In another life, maybe. No. He just couldn't see it.

Jess laughed. “Just do your thing. You're excused from wedding planning. I need to do research of my own that you're not allowed to help with: wedding dresses.”

“You're the best.”

“And don't you forget it, Winchester.”

Sam turned back to his computer.

Hours later, he was no closer to finding anything on Alastair. The company name Alastair had given led to one website that held no more information than a business card, and that was what Sam already knew. Sam even tried digging up information about his brother's past whereabouts, but Dean learned all too well from John Winchester how to hide his traces.

If Sam was going to find anything he would need more details to start with. That meant hounding his brother and hoping something slipped. He decided to give it a try on his lunch break the next day and so drove out to the house on the plateau.

“Hey Dean,” Sam greeted when the door opened.

“Not a good time, Sammy,” Dean answered gruffly.

“I know, things yesterday were bad, but let me apologise with lunch today.”

“Can't. I'm busy.”

“You gotta take a break and eat though.”

“Well, it's gotta get done right now. I'll eat later.”

“Could I help?” Sam offered.

“No, not really. It's a bit tricky, just a one man thing. Listen, I really need to get back to it. Catch ya later, Sam.”

The door was closed. Sam was debating whether or not to just break in and see what his brother was obviously hiding, but the cons of doing so outweighed the pros. Plus, if Dean really was busy with something delicate and time sensitive then Sam would come off doubly worse.

Fortune was on his side, however, when a yellow Gremlin pulled up to the house.

“Charlie, you have no idea how happy I am to see you right now,” Sam called as he walked down the porch steps.

“Wow, I don't think I've ever been greeted with so much enthusiasm before,” Charlie said while watching Sam pull the takeout out of the car for her.

“Well...” Sam hesitated.

“What?” Charlie asked with a frown replacing her usual smile. “Have you two been fighting? Because I don't think you realise how lucky you are to have each other, and you really shouldn't let anything so stupid get in the way...”

“No, it's nothing like that. I mean, we have been, but that's not it right now. I just think he's hiding something. He wouldn't let me in just now, gave me a ridiculous bullshit excuse, and I wanna make sure he's okay.”

“And?” Charlie was far too perceptive. But Sam could use that.

“And I'm worried about him. Could you maybe...”

“Hold it right there, Winchester. Dean's a friend and I'm not going to spy on him for you.”

“No, nothing like that.” Sam made a split-second decision to drop his cards on the table. “It's just he's been secretive about his past in general, but now there's this new guy in town that I get the feeling Dean knows, and I also get the feeling that this guy is pretty bad news even though I don't have any evidence to prove that. I'm looking for something, just some information, enough to help me know what's going on and how to help my brother. I think… I really think he's gonna need it.”

Charlie was still frowning, but she nodded. “Okay. But if what I find out really should stay private and is in no way a threat to anyone?”

“Then I'll respect you for not telling me. Honestly, I'll be happy if that's the case.”

“But you don't think it is? Does this mystery man of danger have a name?”

“Alastair Kemmler. And Charlie, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, now get out of here. I've got a secret reconnaissance mission. You can get in touch with me later to work out code names.”

Sam actually managed a smile as he left her to “storm the castle.” Given her personality and that she was armed with food, he had no doubt that she'd get in. He returned to work in a slightly better mood.

In fact, his mood had improved enough to remember something Alastair had said.

Back at the office he went straight in to find his intern student. The kid was normally overly cautious, but he was also more intelligent than anyone Sam had ever met.

“Kevin, I need your help with something. It's a little unorthodox.”

“Okay,” Kevin said slowly.

“I'm trying to find background information on someone. But he's a client, so it has to be done quietly.” Kevin wasn't protesting, so Sam continued. “See what you can find on Alastair Kemmler. I haven't found anything, but he mentioned owning a nightclub and being in the import-export business. If I get any more information I'll let you know, but I want this to be your priority. I've got to keep up with the cases and work here; you'll be the only one on this assignment. It's a lot of responsibility on you. Can you do it?”

Kevin was quiet for a few moments. “How do you spell Kemmler?”

Sam handed him the business card he had kept. Sam returned to his office finally confident that progress was being made.


	5. Castiel

Dean never knew how he managed to get home that afternoon when he saw Alastair. One minute he was leaving Sam's law offices and the next he was parking Baby in the temporary car port next to his house. (A proper garage was still in the works.) He hurried inside, taking the stairs three at a time, until at last he was in his bedroom.

He shut and locked the door behind him. Instead of making him feel safe it turned the room into a cage from which his heart was beating to get out. He closed his eyes and slid to the ground, his back still to the door, but trying to take deep breaths wasn't helping. He jumped back up and scrambled for the suitcases under his bed. Frantically he opened them, his hands not moving fast enough with the zippers. He then turned to the dresser. His eyes caught on the painting.

“What?” he demanded loudly. “Don't stare at me like that! I have to go. I have to leave.”

He turned his back to the painting and shoved shirts into a duffel. But the painting kept staring.

“I have to,” he repeated, quieter this time. “You don't understand. I can't… I just can't. I'm a coward, all right? I'm nothing but a fucking, worthless coward.”

He piled pants into another bag.

“I was stupid to think it was over—that I could just forget. I never thought he'd find me.”

He looked at the painting again, so sure that it could offer some words of comfort but finding only the piercing stare. Dean moved to grab jackets from the closet.

“It was fucked up for me to work for him to start with, I know. But I wasn't thinking. I just… It wasn't like I hadn't done it all before. What was the big deal doing it for him? Stupid. I always was that stupid.”

He pounded a fist on his bed making the bags jump.

“I did what I had to do! For family!” He was yelling again, his agitation increasing. “I did it, and then I ended it. Dammit, I shouldn't have gotten mixed up with him, but I fucking ended it! I walked away! He was never supposed to track me down and… But what does it matter? I'm not going back. I'm done.”

He crumpled underwear and socks into the bags.

“I'm a coward. I can't even go to the cops. You have no idea what he'd do! What they'd do to me. I'm just as guilty. I'll have to go and tell Sammy to stay away from him. If I'm gone he probably won't stay around. Then Sammy'll be safe.”

He pounded the bed again and threw one of the duffels across the room. He tore at the bed, but the room kept closing in on him. Those damn blue eyes were boring into him from behind. Why did they keep staring? He needed help. Everything was hot and cold, tightening in and exploding out. He couldn't breathe. He fell to his knees and gasped ragged breaths, clawing for air as the room spun around him.

Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder and his breath evened out. He no longer felt trapped. Instead, everything was calm. His head no longer ached.

Dean looked over his shoulder. There stood the angel from the painting. A living, breathing man with a warm hand gently resting on Dean's shoulder. Inwardly Dean was leaping out of his skin in shock, but his body was too relaxed to move. He looked over to the painting. The landscape was missing its former occupant. Only the trail of feathers marked where he once stood with the piece of cloth strewn on the ground.

“Hello Dean,” the man said in a deep voice.

“Wha… who are you?”

“I'm Castiel.”

“What are you?”

“I am… I _was_ an angel of the Lord.”

At this point Dean was certain a bird could make a nest in his mouth it was hanging that wide open. Of course it was at that moment that he also realised that the man was not wearing any clothing.

“Holy shit, you're naked!” He jumped up and backed away.

“You needn't be afraid.” He seemed to ignore Dean's behaviour and walked closer, back into Dean's personal space. “Who is this man that frightens you? I will smite him from the face of the earth.”

“You'll what? Dude, put on some clothes!” Dean scrambled to pick up an outfit for Castiel to put on. He then threw the items to him. Dean tried to look away so the man could change, but Castiel just held the garments and tilted his head. “A painting doesn't know how to get dressed? C'mon man! God, you were a fucking painting!”

“Yes. I was punished. They took my grace and cursed me to that painting until your need released me.”

“My need?” Dean was relieved to see Castiel at last putting the clothes on.

“To vanquish the man that threatens you. Where can I find him so that I may kill him?”

“Whoa, hold on. Kill him? Angel? Aren't angels supposed to be fluffy chicks on clouds with harps and stuff?”

“Angels are the warriors of God. I fail to see what musical young poultry has to do with anything.”

“But wait, you said you _were_ an angel. What are you now?”

“I…” Castiel looked back at the painting. “I don't know. My wings, my grace, it's all gone.”

“So you're human?”

“I am not sure. I’m more man now than angel.” It was a point made sharper by seeing Castiel in Dean's clothing.

“Great. Well, dudes just can't go around killing other dudes.”

Castiel frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Why not? If this man is a problem for you then he must be destroyed.”

“Destroyed? Uh, no.” Dean let out a huff. “No. That's not how we deal with our problems. I mean, I don't know anyone who deserves it more, but that's not the answer.”

“So you are going to continue packing and run away?”

The words hit Dean like a book crashing into his head. Without the pain and panic he could actually think straight. “No. I'm not gonna run. I've spent too much time building all this to just leave. I gotta stick around for Sammy.”

“Good. From what I have seen of you, you are no coward.”

“Seen? You could see me from that painting?” Dean's voice went to an embarrassingly higher pitch.

“And hear you, yes. It was part of the punishment. It was most uncomfortable.”

“I bet. Wait, hold on. You saw and heard everything?”

“Yes.”

Dean spluttered. “What the fuck? You've seen me naked? You were eavesdropping on me? Ever heard of privacy?”

“I fail to understand the human preoccupation with clothing. I apologise. But I was not eavesdropping. You addressed me directly on many occasions.”

“You were decoration on my wall.” Dean got a good look at the ex-angel. What the hell was he supposed to do with the painting turned real boy? “I… uh… I guess you'll be staying with me for a while, at least until you figure out what you want to do. Right?”

“I am to watch over you.”

“Yuh-huh. Great. Fuck, I need a drink.”

Dean left the room and walked down to the kitchen. He didn't bother to check if Castiel was following him. He went straight for the cabinet with the whiskey and grabbed the bottle. He turned to go to the cabinet with the glasses but nearly jumped when he found Castiel standing inches away.

“Castiel, there's this thing called personal space. You need to learn about it.”

Castiel tilted his head and squinted.

Dean decided to go without a glass and just took a swig from the bottle.

“This is the kitchen?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah.”

“I like it. It is… classic.”

“You bet your ass it is.”

“Where is the living room with the wonderful couch?” The words seemed strange and foreign. Then again, was it any wonder when they were coming from a former angel of the Lord?

“It's this way.” Dean led him to the room. “How long were you in that painting?”

“I am not certain. The centuries blurred together, and time turns differently for angels.”

“Okay, so who was president right before you got painted?”

“There was no United States of America then. I did not pay attention to human leaders in any case. There was one man I liked who lived at that time, though you will not know of him. He was a poor man. Francesco had a great love for nature and we communed with the animals together.” Castiel looked around the living room. “You were right, Dean. This room is most magnificent.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Dean said. “I mean it's not bad. It's all right.”

“I don't understand. When I was a painting you boasted of this room, but now that I compliment it you belittle it.”

“Uh… well…” Dean trailed off. Castiel was staring at him. Dean stared back; he was unable to tear his eyes away. At last he cleared his throat. “We should pick a room for you to sleep in.”

“Why?” Castiel asked.

“Because humans need sleep. You know, that thing where we lay in a bed and close our eyes.”

“I'm familiar with the concept, but angels do not sleep.”

“Not even ones cursed in paintings?”

“No. A room for me is unnecessary. I will watch over you instead as I have done before.”

“Hold on! What? No, dude, you are not watching me sleep. That's just creepy!”

“You did not mind when I was a painting.”

“Yeah because I thought it was just a painting. If I had known there was a person cursed in it that could watch me I never would have taken it out of the attic.” Castiel frowned at Dean's outburst but said nothing, so Dean continued. “We're getting you a room.”

Castiel proved to be as immovable as a mountain. Each of the three other rooms in the house had some defect that Castiel considered impossible to deal with. After many words with little significance and even more cursing, they reached a compromise. Dean convinced him to take a room that was next to his own and had a connecting door. Dean had intended to make it an office, but with Castiel's insistence that it was his duty to watch over Dean at all hours it was the only one he would take. Dean thought that with time the angel would agree to move into one of the other rooms.

By the time it was all sorted and furniture moved around it was late in the evening. Dean was starving and headed to the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. Castiel denied a need to eat and just sat and watched Dean. Dean was too tired and too hungry to argue. Eventually he went to bed after a last glimpse of Castiel sitting ramrod straight on the edge of his own new bed with his hands in his lap.

* * *

 

_There was a swirl of smoke and the twist of bodies. Music that was all beat and no tune pounded on Dean's ears while a sticky, wet suit of fat pounded him from behind. Each thrust threatened to send vomit from his mouth as if he was a super soaker with a pump action barrel—just like the ones he found left behind at a park once when he and Sam were kids. Thoughts of Sam only brought the vomit closer to his mouth._

_He looked up and saw a crowd of clowns dancing, their costumes swirling into Willy Wonka's tunnel of LSD while Leatherface wearing a sumo wrestler's costume revved a chainsaw. Added to the beat of the music was Ozzy screaming “All aboard!” and an actual, recognisable tune._

Dean opened his eyes and slammed a hand on the radio alarm clock playing “Crazy Train.” It had just been a dream, a memory only let loose when his brain lost control to the subconscious, and then it was twisted into a stranger horror. There never was any chainsaw, and certainly never any Leatherface or clowns. Yet the faint sound of that power tool continued at odd intervals. Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes, eyes which soon found the empty painting across the room. All of yesterday's events came flooding back. With some reluctance Dean got out of bed to face the day, starting with the noise from the other room.

It was no chainsaw—just the dulcet tones of an angel snoring.

Castiel had dropped back on the bed, his legs still over the side, and was flat on his back asleep. In that position he only could have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Shaking his head at the folly of angels who didn't know their own limits, Dean let Castiel sleep while he got a shower. Once clean and somewhat coherent, Dean whipped up some breakfast and put it on the table. Then he returned upstairs to wake Snoring Beauty.

Dean gave Castiel a gentle shake. “Time to wake up, Castiel.”

With a snort and a jump Castiel woke. He looked around the room, jerking with panicked motions.

“Hey, you're okay,” Dean said soothingly. “You fell asleep.”

“Angels don't sleep,” Castiel replied while glaring at him. He then jumped up and looked for the source of the sound of an empty stomach grumbling for food. It wasn't Dean's.

“Right, you weren't just sleeping—and snoring like a truck by the way—and you don't eat either, but I can hear loud and clear that your body is hungry. Maybe you're more human than you'd like to admit.”

“No, it's not possible. I healed you of your panic,” Castiel said. “You calmed. I thought because of that small miracle the rest of my power would return with time. I'd receive my grace once more and return to Heaven. My Father would not abandon me; even though I never met Him, I followed his orders and thought I knew His love. But the doors of Heaven are closed, and I cannot hear my brethren. It's said that my Father's punishment is eternal, so I'll be forever divided from the other angels.”

Hearing the building anguish and resignation in his voice, Dean didn't know what to say to comfort Castiel. “I'm sorry, Cas. I know a little about deadbeat dads. You're not alone, okay? I'm gonna help you learn to live with us mortals. You'll fit right in and may even learn to enjoy a few things.”

There was a long pause. “Thank you, Dean. I know you will be an excellent teacher.”

“Hey, it's no big deal. But before your stomach gets any louder I'd say lesson one is eating. Food is good. There's a whole bunch ready and waiting downstairs.”

Once again, Castiel followed Dean to the kitchen. This time he sat at the table with a plate full of food.

“Go ahead,” Dean said. “Take a bite.”

With some trepidation Castiel took a forkful of fried egg. His face immediately scrunched in disgust as he swallowed. Dean laughed and it only made Castiel frown more.

“Yeah, the thing about food: some you'll hate, some you'll like, and some you'll love. Everyone has different tastes.”

“You love pie,” mused Castiel. “Humans have a great capacity for choice.”

“Yeah, I love me some pie. There's all sorts of different types too. And when it comes to eggs? Oh yeah, there's _several_ different ways to cook them. I'll just have to remember you don't like them fried. Why don't you have some of the toast? It'll be better, I promise.”

This time looking as if it was going to bite _him_ , Castiel bit into the toast and chewed. He swallowed.

“I like toast,” he admitted at last.

“Great. This toast just has butter, but you can put nearly anything on it. Jam, jelly, honey, sugar, peanut butter, beans—if you're British and slightly nuts.”

“I don't know which I'll prefer. I must try them all. Bring me these things.”

“Okay, slow down cowboy. One day at a time.”

* * *

 

It was lunchtime when Sam showed up. Dean kept him at the door and lied out the other end of his ass until his brother went away. He wasn't ready to introduce or explain Castiel just yet. Later, maybe, when Castiel lost the obvious man-out-of-his-time soldier of God vibe. Unfortunately, Sam was shortly followed by Charlie, and she was not so easily handled. She pushed in past him with take-away in hand. Dean could only catch up to her as she entered the kitchen. More unfortunately, Castiel was standing in said kitchen.

“Holy mother of there's coffee in that nebula Janeway!” Charlie exclaimed. “You… you...”

Charlie turned with an open mouth to Dean. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, he kind of just stepped out of the painting.”

“Stepped out? Holy cats, Batman! What in the sacred name of Joss Whedon is going on here?”

“Why don't you let the horse's mouth explain it all? Castiel, you remember Charlie?”

Dean took the Thai food from Charlie while Castiel explained things to Charlie. He mostly tuned out the conversation as he separated the food between three plates.

“So, okay,” Charlie was saying when Dean turned his attention back to them. “You were cursed and turned into a painting where you had to be aware of everything around you. What did you do that was so bad that they did that to you?”

For the first time Castiel broke eye contact with the person speaking to him. He looked away from Charlie and Dean, his features conveying a deep and painful shame.

“That's not really important,” Dean cut in. “We don't care about that so much since it happened such a long time ago.”

“Right,” Charlie said, catching Dean's warning tone and backing off. “Okay, how long were you a painting then?”

“I'm uncertain,” Castiel answered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean continued for him, “and you didn't pay attention to political leaders that might have been remembered through history. Just some poor guy named Francesco who talked to animals.”

“Some poor guy named… Uh, Castiel, was that guy by any chance Italian?”

“He said he came from Assisi. Is that Italian?”

“Yeah, that's in Italy,” Charlie said. “It's just a hunch, but I'm guessing your Francesco is more famous than you realise. See, I took this art history course where we had to learn a whole lot about saints and stuff. They're kind of important in the Medieval and Renaissance periods. Anyways, there's one saint in particular who was famous for talking to animals. St. Francis of Assisi. Or in Italian, San Francesco.”

“He was a man of great faith in my Father,” Castiel said thoughtfully.

“Uh huh,” Dean nodded dumbly. “So is there a date with that saint?”

“Very early thirteenth century,” answered Charlie. “It fits with the style of the painting that Castiel used to be.”

“So Cas has been oil paint for eight hundred years,” said Dean. He put a hand on Castiel's shoulder. “You've got a lot to catch up on, buddy.”

“Yes.” There was the sound of a stomach grumbling. “Dean, I'm hungry again.”

“Then let's stop yapping and start eating,” Dean said and passed them their plates. While eating his eyes kept drifting towards Castiel. He couldn't help smiling at the different reactions on Cas' face to the new tastes and textures. Thai food seemed to agree with Cas. Mentally Dean started making a list of all the different foods he would have to introduce to Castiel.

That's when he caught Charlie staring at him. She quickly looked away, but there was a sneaky smile on her face. He was about to call her out on it when Cas let out a spectacularly loud burp. Dean burst out laughing at Cas' confused expression.

“Gross,” Charlie said. “Nice one, but gross.”

“I'm sorry,” said Cas. “I was aware humans belched after a meal, but I wasn't prepared for the sensation. Is the correct form to say 'excuse me' now?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “That's the correct form.”

“Hey,” Charlie blurted suddenly. “You're gonna need to go shopping for clothes and stuff. Can I come? Please? I mean not right now because I have to go back to work, but the day after tomorrow is my day off and we can make a total quest of it.”

“We'll let you know,” Dean said. “What do you say, Cas? Do you think you'll be ready to make more choices and get out in the world? 'Cuz you're welcome to keep sharing my clothes. I don't mind, and I don't want to rush you.”

“I would like to go out, but I feel ill prepared. The world has changed so much.”

“You've got that right,” said Charlie. “Has Dean introduced you to the T.V. yet?”

“That's a great idea,” said Dean. “We'll get right on that.”

“Have fun, boys,” Charlie said as she walked out the front door.

“What is a T.V.?” Cas asked Dean the moment Charlie was gone.

“Oh man, you're gonna love this.”

And it turned out he did. But rather than share Dean's love of movies, sci-fi, and Dr. Sexy, Cas gravitated to nature documentaries and commercials. And not the cool commercials that might be shown with the Superbowl. No, Cas liked the boring ones that were obviously targeting middle American housewives. He had to keep a sharp eye for infomercials for fear of how they'd dupe the poor man. It seemed rather than being fun, T.V. time with Cas was spent half in trying to explain human behaviour and half in dead boredom.

Once attached to the T.V. it was difficult to pull Cas away. Dean had to practically drag him from the couch and push him up the stairs at night to go to bed. It was only due to the gnawing pains of hunger that Cas voluntarily left to eat with Dean in the kitchen.

But it wasn't entirely bad. There were things he hadn't even considered teaching Cas because he took it for granted that even an angel would know it. It wasn't until a diaper commercial that Dean discovered his angel wasn't housebroken. That was an interesting conversation he had no desire ever to repeat. It led to a whole discussion on personal hygiene and maintenance both helped and hindered by more commercials: yes on soap, deodorant, and facial shaving; no on makeup, tampons, and leg shaving. Double standards based on gender were a hard concept for Cas to follow. After that conversation he practically pouted through an hour documentary on the hippopotamus, constantly pointing out that there weren't those kinds of differences for those mammals. Dean didn't remember rolling his eyes so much before in his life.


	6. Charlie Ships It

What the frack?

Those three words kept repeating over and over in Charlie's head. Dean's weird ass angel painting was a cursed angel now made flesh. Things like that just didn't happen. Now Charlie was down with some weird stuff and conspiracy theories, but this? This was bending her brain in more positions than that Bikram yoga instructor she dated in college.

She should really see if Jo would take a yoga class with her.

No, Charlie, focus!

She had to focus on the Winchester brothers. Those two buttheads needed her help. She always knew Dean was difficult and desperately needed a committed and fulfilling relationship—something more than his avowed usual hooking up and getting laid. Sam had filled her in on the sitch with Mr. Major Mystery McCreepypants, and in return she advised him to get Kevin together with Ash over at the Roadhouse. While Charlie was quite accomplished on her own with computers and no stranger to hacking, Ash had more experience digging for the real dirt. Plus, she was busy going undercover on Operation Hawkeye, a.k.a. spying on Dean and prying out answers for Sam while trying to draw up a plan for her own Operation Cupid. Then Dean had asked that she help him hide Cas from Sam until he was a little more adjusted to modernity—Operation Feathers.

That was far too many operations for even her hero Hermione. Harry and Ron weren't half as difficult as the Winchesters.

Currently she, Dean, and Castiel were hunting through the hodgepodge of racks at a secondhand store to get Castiel a wardrobe of his own. As she pushed hangers along she could make out a very faint musical sound coming from Cas.

“Is he humming the Meow Mix jingle?” she asked Dean.

“He likes commercials,” Dean answered with some sarcasm.

“Oh, have you seen the Snickers feast commercials?” she said.

Dean rolled his eyes, but Castiel shook his head.

“No,” said Charlie. “I guess not. They aired a long while back and I think they run more of those 'you're not yourself when you're hungry' ones now, which to be fair are pretty funny but not nearly as badass as the car trip feast. They were the coolest! A Viking, a Roman, a pilgrim, a Hawaiian, and Henry VIII all travelling in a car eating their Snickers feast. Cracked me up every time. The ones with Robin Hood and them all singing Greensleeves were the best. Definitely had me lol-ing.”

“It's an expression,” Dean said when Castiel looked about to say something. “Means it made her laugh. A lot.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. “Can I ask why that is so funny?”

“Because it's totally crazy,” Charlie explained. “Comedy of the absurd. It's so unlikely, so weird, so beyond anything normal, and that makes it funny.”

“I see,” Castiel said.

“Hey Chuckles,” Dean called while holding up a shirt. “What do you think of this?”

“It's very plaid, Dean,” Castiel answered.

Charlie snorted back laughter. Castiel didn't know comedy of the absurd, but he certainly knew dry wit and sarcasm.

“Yeah, so?” Dean shot back.

“I'm not sure I like plaid. What about this?” Castiel held up an orange and pink paisley patterned shirt.

“Oh, absolutely not!”

“Why?”

“Because it's a crime against humanity, Cas, that's why!”

“I like it. You did say being human meant I could choose what I like.”

“Yeah, but…” Oddly enough, and after enough staring into each other's eyes, Dean looked like he was about to cave.

Charlie rode in to fashion's rescue. “Hey Castiel, turn this way and hold it against you. Yeah, sorry, but it makes you look like Dawn of the Dead.”

“I don't understand that reference.”

“That shade of pink washes out your skin colour,” she continued. “Makes you look not so attractive. See, part of clothing is picking the style and colours you like. But there's another part of picking things in that style that _look good_ on you. Which okay, can be considered totally bogus, people should be free to wear whatever the hell they want, right? But sometimes it just doesn't work out. Appearances are important because people can be really shallow. So Dean means well when he says no, and I gotta agree on this one.”

“I see,” said Castiel.

“What about this one instead?” She pulled out a different paisley shirt, this one in greens and blues and much more subtle. “Similar print, but the colours look much better on you. Bring out your eyes.”

Cas examined the shirt. “What do you think, Dean?”

“Much better,” he grumbled, still not thrilled with a pattern so close to floral. “But it's up to you.”

“Yes, I like this.” Cas then wandered over to sweaters while Charlie pulled a couple more basic shirts, and even one that was pink and orange but far more tasteful and a more manly shade.

Dean and Cas bickered over pants for a while: Dean insisted that jeans were all he needed, Cas wanted to try slacks.

“Why not both?” Charlie suggested. “You need variety. It's not like it's Empire or Alliance, Alliance or browncoats, Slytherin or Gryffindor, orcs or elves. Those are situations where you have to just pick one.”

Dean smirked and Cas looked confused. Charlie sighed. “I know, Castiel, you don't get it. I'm a huge nerd, okay?”

“What's a nerd?” Cas asked.

“Well the dictionary dot com answer is someone obsessed with non-social activities, but that is biased and completely ill informed. I mean, have they been to ComicCon? LARPing? Totally social. I like to go with a more urban interpretation and that nerds are intelligent people highly focussed and knowledgeable on things that may not necessarily follow the popular trends.”

Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment. “Then nerds are a noble group. Angels have always thought humans to be fickle and inconstant, but to love something so much solely because it's your choice shows a passion and fidelity greater than any angel. As a nerd you should wear that badge proudly.”

Dean cleared his throat, effectively ruining Charlie's moment. “Okay, nerds, let's start trying on some things and get moving out of here.”

“Oh, montage!” Charlie exclaimed while grabbing her iPod. Not even Dean Winchester was going to dampen her fun. Playing music might make him try, so instead she was going to film everything and then add music afterwards in editing. Castiel was brand new to all this; it deserved documentation.

Cas came out in several of the “Dean” outfits first: layered tees and jeans. When she swivelled the camera to get a reaction shot from Dean, she was a little taken aback. If ever there was a look of twitterpation it was on Dean's face. She took a chance to grill him when Cas went back in the dressing room. Operation Cupid might be easy after all.

“So Cas, huh?” she said suggestively.

“What? What about Cas?”

“Just… _friends_?”

“Well yeah, Charlie, I'm not gay.”

“I never said you were.”

“Okay, just so that's clear.”

“Sexuality comes in many more different flavours. And if you ever use the phrase 'no homo bro' I will kill you with a shovel and stuff your body in a barrel of bleach. Just to warn you.”

“Charlie!”

Before he could go on, Cas came out again. This time he was wearing slacks, a buttoned shirt, and a tan overcoat that as soon as he saw it he refused to let it go. Once again Dean was clearing his throat, and this time moved his legs in an unmistakable way. One didn't have to be intimately familiar with men to know when they were hiding a boner. And Charlie had the move on tape.

“Yeah,” Dean said roughly. “Looks good, Cas. That's a definite keeper.”

Castiel smiled and returned again to the dressing room.

“You totally wanna hit that,” Charlie said. Dean started sputtering so she cut him off. “Dean, do honestly think _I'm_ going to judge you? It's cool if you're attracted to men and women.”

“Easy for you to say,” he mumbled.

“Not really, high school's a bitch.” She sighed. She'd always had a feeling that Dean was in the closet, but she had never guessed how deep. So Operation Cupid was back on the difficult list. “Listen, I'm sorry if I'm shipping something that's not sailing. 'Cuz hey, you've just met and all. But if you ever wanna talk about anything, you know you can trust me, right?”

He nodded and the subject was dropped.

Castiel finished and the chosen clothes were paid for. They all went to a proper yet inexpensive department store next. No one should ever have to wear secondhand underwear. And since men's underwear was definitely not her thing, Charlie wandered away from the two to look at the novelty superhero boxers. Put a button in the front hole and they made great pyjama bottoms. Don't judge. It wasn't her fault manufacturers were slow to understand that there was an adult female market for superheroes. Things were looking slightly up in that regard, thank you Kevin Feige and the MCU cash cow, but dudes still got the coolest shit. And where the hell was her Black Widow merch? Then again her Jo might not like Charlie parading around her love of ScarJo. Best not to make the woman with the large knife collection jealous.

Anyways… mission, Charlie. Focus!

She was still near enough to Dean and Cas to pick up snippets of their conversation. What she did catch made her once again glad that she never had to have anything to do with a man's downstairs bits. Ew.

But then she heard a change in Dean's tone and paid closer attention.

“Did you really mean what you said earlier? About nerds. I mean, it's just dumb stuff. And you're not the only one who doesn't get half of it.”

“Do you have so little respect for yourself, Dean? I've heard you call yourself a nerd on more than one occasion when I was restricted to the painting.”

Charlie moved as stealthily as she could to steal a glance at the two of them. Dean never answered Castiel's question, but Charlie knew Dean well enough to guess. He probably shrugged his shoulders or made some other non-committal but still somehow self-deprecating movement.

“Dean, being a nerd is something to be admired. Celebrated. You, you are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for.”

Okay, that was so much more than a broment. Operation Cupid was totally a go. She was so going to captain their ship. DeanCas? CasDean? Can? Castean? Destiel? Yes, Destiel. Grab the champagne bottle because this new ship was about to set sail.

* * *

 

“So how was your playdate with Dean, sweetie?” Jo teased as soon as Charlie sat at the Roadhouse bar.

“How's Dean doing?” Jody asked. “I hear from Bobby that's he's fixed up that creepy mansion to something liveable.”

“Well, Sheriff,” replied Charlie, “I'd hardly call it a mansion.”

“Eh, it's a big house for just one guy.”

“And that is why he now has a roommate.”

“You're kidding!” scoffed Jo. “Who would willingly put up Dean Winchester?”

“He's a nice guy, Jo,” said Jody. “Just because he flirted with you when you first met doesn't make him horrible.”

“Plus he knows you're taken now,” said Charlie.

“Damn straight.” Jo gave Charlie a quick peck on the lips.

“Joanna Beth,” came Ellen's voice, “what did I say about kissing your girlfriend in this bar?”

“Only when I'm not working,” Jo recited. “I'm taking my break right now.”

Ellen rolled her eyes and got back to work.

“So this new roommate,” Jody prompted.

“He's an old friend of Dean's,” Charlie said, repeating the cover story she had worked out earlier with Dean and Cas. The trick to Sam not finding out too soon was all in careful controlling of the story. Leak it slowly so it doesn’t get back to Sam because everyone already thinks that he knows, but also leak enough that no one asks Sam about the new guy seen with his brother. “Dean heard he was down on his luck and asked him to come stay. He's a bit strange, kind of lived under a rock so he's a bit out of touch and really private, but he's super nice.”

“He got a name?” asked Jo.

“Castiel Godson. He's named after the angel of Thursday. Apparently he had super religious parents, kind of their whole life sort of deal.”

“Explains the living under a rock,” said Jody.

“And we're just going to let Dean corrupt him?” asked Jo with some humorously false indignation.

“Oh trust me, he can hold his own,” Charlie said. If only Jo had seen how Cas had Dean wrapped around his finger. Being smitten—acknowledged or not—had that effect.

“Well gals,” said Jody, “as always this was a lovely way to spend the evening after a long day at work, but I've got to be back at the station first thing in the morning. I better call it a night.”

“Don't tell me we've got a criminal in our little town,” Ellen said as she re-joined them.

“I don't know,” Jody admitted. “There's some feds in the area tracking down a potential drug and human trafficking ring. I've got to make sure things are in order if they come through here.”

“Always best to be prepared,” Ellen agreed. “I hope they grab the bastards… if or wherever they are.”

“Me too, Ellen,” Jody said and then left.

“You done with that break, Jo?” Ellen demanded.

“Yes, mom,” Jo said.

“Good. And you two girls… be careful, all right?”

“Oh come on,” Jo scoffed at her mother's worry. “We're way too old for human traffickers. Don't they like underage girls?”

“They take all sorts,” Ellen shot back. “So don't give me any lip. When I say be careful, I mean it.”

“We will,” Charlie assured her. “Constant vigilance!”

“And a hope that the feds find them somewhere else,” Jo added. “Don't worry mom, monsters like that give me the willies.”

Somewhat mollified, Ellen left them. Since Jo had to get back to work, Charlie went in search of Ash. She found him in the back room bent over a computer with Kevin.

“Hey guys,” she greeted cheerfully.

The both jumped. “Dammit, Charles,” Ash said, “don't sneak up on people like that.”

“How goes the search?” Charlie asked, completely unfazed by their frowns.

“It doesn't,” Kevin complained. “We barely have anything to go on, and this guy covers his tracks.”

“He's definitely a pro,” Ash agreed.

“Oh, c'mon! You guys can do it! What have you got so far?”

Kevin sighed. “He's owned nightclubs, but they must have been under a different name, or he was a silent partner. Do you have any idea how many clubs have owners with an alias or secret partner?”

“A lot?” Charlie guessed.

“Exactly!” said Kevin. “And don't get me started on how unhelpful the import-export business is! We have nothing to narrow it down so we can dig where this guy is hiding.”

Kevin was really going to new levels of crazy stress. Poor kid hated being outsmarted. But even with her amusement at Kevin's obvious discomfort, something was bothering Charlie. There was some idea in the back of her brain trying to get out.

“What about you?” Ask asked her. “Anything out of Dean?”

“It’s easier hacking into the Pentagon than getting inside that head,” Charlie complained. Operation Hawkeye was Mission Impossible without Tom Cruise. Granted, she wasn't much of a Tom Cruise fan so that actually sounded rather nice. Maybe Mission Impossible without Simon Pegg… or only Simon Pegg and no team. Anyways, despite many attempts later during the shopping, she had nothing. “I have dropped so many hints and prying questions… zilch. Nada. Not one bit. Sam put way too much faith in me. I can say Dean’s done a bit of this and that. Construction and cars are the only thing he’ll openly admit to. Hints that some might have been a little shady. I don’t suppose he worked construction for the creepy guy? Built a nightclub or two?”

Clubs, import-export, the dude was totally creepy.

“No, all the contracted companies attached to the buildings are clean,” Ash said.

“And no,” Kevin said, “none of them have made convenient blog posts about how scary the guy is, or that he gave them the willies.”

He gave people the willies—like Jo and human trafficking.

Import-export. Drugs. Prostitution. Clubs.

“Wuh duh ma huh tah duh fong kwong duh wai shung,” Charlie muttered.

“Watch your mouth,” Ash said.

“I just figured it out. Sam's going off what Creepy Dude said. Creepy dudes don't just say they're creepy—they would never admit anything outright, they'd talk around it.”

“Euphemisms,” Ash said.

“Sort of,” said Charlie. “Clubs and importing aren't illegal, but they are if they involve drugs or prostitution. Sheriff Mills was just saying that the feds are trying to sniff out a drug and human trafficking ring. Kind of a coincidence that they show up after Shady McCreeperton's arrival?”

“Never trust a coincidence,” said Kevin. “Does this mean...”

“We are a few steps closer to finding the guy,” Ash finished. “Time to break into some police records.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wuh duh ma huh tah duh fong kwong duh wai shung = Holy Mother of God and all her wacky nephews, a quote from Firefly.


	7. New Hobbies and Old Habits

Dean walked down each of the aisles of the grocery store slowly. Time was he’d just run in and grab some stuff from a small convenience store, but that changed with owning a house and feeding an angel with a growing curiosity for different varieties of food. Each week they tried out a few new recipes. It was actually rather fun, especially with Cas’ expressions of enjoyment or disgust. But it also meant taking time in a proper grocery store to gather ingredients listed in a recipe, or just to explore the all the new and assorted things the store had to offer.

He was looking at the smorgasbord of butters and butter substitutes, wondering what the hell was the point of them all, when his skin suddenly came over in goosebumps. It was to be expected with all the open refrigeration, but why did it happen just then and not earlier?

Dean continued down the aisle past the biscuit doughs, deli meats, and cheese. He turned up the next aisle to look through pastas, breads, and canned vegetables. He made his way down once again shaking his head at the organisation system. Why were canned vegetables next to bread? If any two items were never to meet on a plate…

He made it to the end of the aisle when someone approached him.

“Well, if isn’t dear old Dean Winchester,” an all too familiar voice drawled. “Isn’t this just my lucky day?”

“Alastair,” Dean said as he faced his accoster. “What are you doing here?”

“A man’s gotta eat, Dean-o.”

“You’re no man.”

Alastair laughed. “How I missed you, Dean. Seems you got some of that spunk back. But then, you never had any trouble with _spunk_ , did you?”

“Go to hell! You had plenty of other guys. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“You think I came here just to find you?” Alastair said, still smiling but shaking his head. “Dean, Dean, Dean. I’m here on business. I didn’t know you were in the area until I saw you in that office. But you _were_ my best, so pliant and broken. You can puff out your chest and swear at me all you want, but we both know the truth. You’re cracked. Not right in the head. What sort of boy comes to me for that sort of job? Not only that, but you were so good at it! It’s where you belong. It’s who you are!”

Dean couldn’t form a response. Alastair laughed while he stood there dumb.

“You ever need a job again, you’ll come see me,” Alastair said. “Just ask your brother to give you the details.”

Alastair left and seemed to take Dean’s strength with him. Dean leaned over the shopping cart so it held his weight.

With Cas’ arrival he had pushed Alastair and thoughts of the past into the back of his mind, the place they belonged. He’d laughed with Cas and Charlie. He’d let his guard down. He had to do something, but his mind was blank. One thought drifted through and eventually he paid attention to it: go home to Cas.

With that thought Dean was able to finish his shopping. He checked out, loaded up the car, and drove back to his house. He immediately focused on putting all the food away. He bustled and banged around the kitchen until Cas came into the room.

“Hello Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean didn’t have to force a smile. It came naturally looking at his friend. “What do you say I fix up some tacos for dinner tonight?”

Cas smiled as only he could: a subtle quirk of the lips and soft crinkles around the eyes. “I’d like that.”

“Got some new salsa, thought we might try a little more spice this time. Plus I’ll fry some corn tortillas. Get some crunch instead of soft.”

“Tacos have more options than I realised,” said Cas.

“There’s infinite possibilities with tacos, Cas. Infinite.”

Here at home, Dean could believe that. He could believe he was safe. He could believe that he and Cas were gonna be happy hanging out together. No matter what Alastair might do out there, here he could believe.

* * *

 

“This language is unfamiliar to me,” Cas said as he watched the T.V. the next morning.

Dean was in the room, but he was occupied hunting for job options. If he was going to defend himself against Alastair then he needed to make sure he wasn’t vulnerable again. The first part was finding a source of income. The house was just about done—a couple rooms could use a few tweaks and the surrounding yard was still hopeless—and his savings were still enough to get by, but that wouldn't last forever. So Dean was staring at internet searches looking for ideas and opportunities.

“Well, Cas,” he said with his eyes still glued to his laptop, “there are a lot of human languages.”

“I'm aware,” Cas said. “As an angel I could understand all of them, and I haven't yet lost that ability. But this one is strange. It seems a combination of French, Spanish, and English, yet it's also nonsense.”

Dean looked up to the television and saw yellow pills wearing goggles and overalls. Minions. Cas was watching one of the Despicable Me movies.

“Oh that,” Dean said. “It's gibberish, the language of Gibbers.”

“I don't think there is… oh. You're teasing me.”

“Can't get anything past you, Cas.”

Cas resumed watching the movie with an intense stare, as if squinting at it would give him answers to his questions. Dean resumed his search.

He was good with cars, but there wasn't much of a need in this area for that. Buying old cars to restore wasn't the best investment—too much risk of it being a financial black hole. Flipping houses was something he could do, but again, there wasn't a big demand for residential real estate nearby. Why couldn't Sam have settled in a city or at least a bigger, more suburban town?

For hours this problem occupied Dean's mind. And all the while Cas was humming that fucking Happy song.

Honestly, he liked it when his angel was humming. The guy had a nice voice and it usually meant he was in a good mood. And Dean himself was frequently humming or singing something. But that was all good, classic tunes. “Happy” was today's new version of “It's a Small World” and needed to be destroyed accordingly.

He slammed his laptop closed.

“Okay Cas, the T.V. thing has got to stop.”

“How else am I to reacquaint myself with the world, Dean?”

“I don't know! Why don't you read a book? There's a bookshelf full of them over there.”

Cas frowned, but nonetheless he turned off the T.V. and walked to the bookshelf. If Dean's mind wasn't so preoccupied with worry he probably would have apologised for the outburst. Cas was weird, but he was a friend. Dean didn't make friends easily, not as close as Cas; Cas was the exception that proved the rule. Who would have guessed that Dean Winchester could feel so comfortable around someone he knew so little about? But he was distracted with worry, so there was no apology to Cas.

He got up to call Bobby and see if he knew of anything for him.

Between vacation and illness, Bobby had a couple mechanics out so he asked Dean to fill in for a couple days. Cas knew enough to survive being left alone for a few hours, so Dean didn't think much of it. Until the next afternoon when he came home to an angry ex-angel.

“Something is wrong, Dean,” he said as soon as Dean walked in the door.

“What?” Dean asked. He was tired and covered in grease, but if Cas had a problem Dean would fix it.

“I don't know. I'm experiencing a new sensation that is most uncomfortable.”

“Uh huh.” Dean waited for him to elaborate.

“It started when I finished reading all of the books in your library. I tried to watch T.V. again, but it felt… wrong. I didn't like anything and I couldn't concentrate on it. Everything is too quiet here. I found myself walking from room to room trying to occupy my mind, but there was nothing. I'm restless and hollow and I don't know what to do.”

Dean gave a humourless chuckle. “Yeah, that's called boredom, Cas. Don't angels ever get bored?”

“No. How do I get rid of it?”

“Well if I knew the answer I'd probably be a lot better off,” said Dean. “People do all sorts of things to kill boredom. Working, reading, playing. Finding a hobby.”

“There's nothing left to read,” Cas complained. “And I don't know how to find any hobbies.”

“And that is why we invented libraries.” Given that Castiel was so upset by all of this, Dean sighed. “Okay, I'm gonna go get cleaned up and make dinner. Then we can make a list of different things you can do when you're bored. Sound good?”

“Yes. Thank you, Dean.”

After he was clean and fed, Dean looked up the public library's hours. Someone in the universe was on his side because that night was the one night a week it was open late. Dean took Cas out and got them both library cards and some books to start. Cas got books on hobbies and Dean got books on jobs.

Over the following few days Dean saw first-hand just how fast Cas was at reading and learning. The dude devoured books. Dean considered trying to teach him how to use the internet again, but the first attempt had ended with porn and an uncomfortable conversation about the human sex drive. Why did the guy have to ask such straightforward questions with those giant blue eyes and the head tilt? It got to Dean faster than any of Sam's puppy dog looks. So yeah, until Cas was more adjusted to humanity he was not going near the computer. Instead he just made several trips to the library. Dean got him a bicycle with a basket so he could go whenever he wanted. Luckily riding a bike was easier to learn than navigating the internet. Teaching him had been quite the experience. Cas had absolutely no sense of personal space, so he had taken hands on instruction really well. He also went on and on about understanding physics, once managing the complex mechanics of flight, and that travel by bike might be slower than a car but it was much less confining. So in other words and to sum up, he took to it like a fish to water.

Dean meanwhile was getting more desperate looking for a moneymaking career. In his search he couldn't stop himself from looking at wanted ads of a different sort—the criminal who didn't show up to court sort. Looking through things and falling into old habits, Dean found one name that he could probably track down and bring in easy. It wouldn't take him more than a day or two. Since Cas was out of the house, Dean left a quick note and hopped in the Impala.

* * *

 

It ended up taking just the day to track and catch the guy. It was just a matter of finding which bar the soak was hanging in; however, for starting the whiskey before noon and not leaving it for hours into the evening, the guy put up quite a fight.

Well, he was originally arrested for drunk and disorderly _and_ aggravated assault.

By the time Dean dragged the guy into the station he had a couple of bruised ribs, a split lip, and a black eye that was gonna hurt much worse before it got better.

He traded words with Jody, handed the guy over, and was promised his check in the mail.

Finally walking through the door of his own home he was well and truly beat. Pun intended. He wasn't expecting a livid Castiel to accost him in the front hall with a worried Charlie hanging back just steps behind.

“Hey guys,” Dean said, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

Cas wasn't having it. “You're hurt… and you've been drinking.”

“Uh no,” Dean argued. “I did not drink. Just had a bit of a brawl in a bar with someone who had been drinking.”

“Why were you in a bar fighting a drunk?”

Dean hemmed and hawed a bit, so Charlie took the opportunity to say her goodbyes.

“Glad you're back safe, Dean. But never do that again. I'll just leave it to you two, and you can give me the deets later.”

“Listen Cas,” Dean said when she was gone. “I know. It was a dick move just taking off and not letting you know more than a short note, but it was a job. A bad guy skipped out on his court date, and I brought him back in to the police. I'll make sure to give you a better heads up next time.”

“There isn't going to be a next time, Dean.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was worried, yes. I overreacted when I called Charlie. But seeing you now… No. You will not continue hunting 'bad guys.'” The nerdy dude even used hand-gestured air quotes.

“I don't think it's any of your business telling me what I can and can't do. I found a job, I got paid, end of story. Just stay out of it!”

“No, that's not the end. That's not even the beginning! That job was your father's, and you hate it. That's where it begins. You're doing a job you want to leave behind, that you had left behind.”

“Where do you get…”

“I know you, Dean! I watched you, listened to you confess these troubles a hundred times before. Now let me finish the real end of this story. The end is you are wounded. Yes, it might be small and superficial wounds only, but it could have been worse. And I can't heal you, Dean.”

“That's not...”

“It is the point. I was an angel. I had wings that flew me from one side of the globe to the other faster than a human blink. The human mind can’t fathom what that is like. I had the power of grace given to me by my Father. With that grace I could heal any injury with just a touch of my hand.” Cas put one of his hands on Dean's face. “One touch, Dean. Of all the things I could once do, that is the only thing I would beg to have back. But I can't.”

Cas dropped his hand but didn't move away. “I believe the feeling this gives me is fear. I've never felt fear before. But I feel it now thinking of you getting into fights, getting injured, and all I'll be able to do is stand to one side. Where is my purpose if I can't help you?”

“It's not your job to protect or heal me, Cas,” said Dean.

“It is. I'm an angel.”

“You said angels were warriors for God. You'd have more important things to fight.”

“Fighting what, Dean? There's a shadow in your life that you won't let me fight. So I stand watch. But even that I can't do. I'm not truly an angel anymore. I need a purpose again, because without it I'm useless.”

“You're not… don't say that, Cas. You're not, okay?” He sighed. “I'm sorry. I've been so focused on finding a job and getting money. That's why today happened. Old habits—going out and catching runaway bad guys.”

“But that isn't what you want to do.”

“It's what I was raised to do.”

Cas lowered his head briefly. “I understand.”

“But no, Cas, I don't like doing it. I did come here deciding to stop, you're right. But what else am _I_ good for?”

“Many things, Dean Winchester. Many, many things.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna go get cleaned up and head to bed. You should do the same.”

In the shower a million thoughts plagued Dean. He was supposed to watch out for his family, and yet somehow he got an angel who feels the same exact way about him. No one has ever looked out for Dean. Dad looked down on him, passing down responsibilities, and Sam looked up to him, putting the weight of a hero on him. Dean always accepted that weight without question or complaint. Now this fallen angel wanted to do the same for him. He didn't deserve it.


	8. Someone Got a Job

When Dean finally woke the next day, it was to a glorious feeling of warm sunshine. He stretched in bed, feeling so much better than he had the night before. Too much so.

Dean got out of bed with far more painless flexibility than he should have with bruised ribs. Going to the mirror, he lifted up his shirt. Sure enough, the bruises were all but gone. His lip was tender with newly healed flesh—no scab in sight. His eye was definitely looking better than it should; the colour suggested a few days’ worth of healing rather than a few hours.

Dean looked at the clock. It was late in the morning, too close to lunch for breakfast. Cas would be at the library by now, which was unfortunate given how much Dean wanted him to double check just how “powerless” he really was. What else could explain Dean's near Wolverine level of healing overnight?

Impatient for Cas and lacking any desire to continue his futile job search, Dean wandered the house looking to list any last projects to finish. He could put his carpentry skills to the test and build some new furniture to replace what he scavenged together, but other than that nothing much was left. Excepting the outside. Dean had been dreading it. He just wasn't blessed with a green thumb.

He decided to suck it up and at least take a look. He started with the back yard and stepped out onto the deck he had added. The deck and grill were as far as he had gotten. Or so he thought.

“Son of a bitch.”

The once barren ground was covered with plants. A few pots tumbled from the deck onto the ground below. There were succulents and cacti scattered among beautifully blooming shrubs and flowerbeds. Though bees flitted from flower to flower, they were definitely desert plants. They looked like they belonged in the desert. Yet Dean had no idea that desert plants could look so lush. There was a path marked, but it was only dirt. It lacked a proper cover of stones. It meandered around the plants and ended at the far end where some concrete blocks and wood waited to be assembled. Dean might not be the most knowledgeable about plants, but elementary school at least taught him what a beehive would look like, and there was no doubt that pile was going to be a beehive.

Well, Cas' favourite documentary was about bees.

Dean strolled back towards the house. The yard was lovely, but more could still be done. His thoughts about benches and a bird bath were interrupted by his cellphone ringing.

“Hey, Charlie,” Dean greeted, his mind still distracted.

“Just checking that you're still alive,” she said. “Should I even try to ask what happened yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Oh yeah, that. Uh, I did some bounty hunting. It's what my dad did.”

“Oooookaaay,” Charlie dragged out. “Normally I wouldn’t touch daddy issues with a thirty-nine and a half inch pole, but I’ve gotta ask. Bounty hunting?”

“Yeah, it’s… whatever.”

“Thanks for vague-ing that up. But are you okay? You sound st...unned.”

“Did you just say I sound stoned?” Dean asked as he snapped into more awareness.

“No! I said stunned.”

“Uh huh,” Dean replied with little belief. “I just found out that my barren back yard isn't barren at all.”

“Wait, you didn't know Cas was out there gardening?”

“I had no clue. How?”

“Well that's a loaded question,” Charlie said. “I can't believe you didn't know. Apparently one of his co-workers at the library showed him the local nursery and he went nuts.”

“Co-workers?”

“Dean Winchester, just what have you been doing that you haven't noticed that your not-so-normal roommate got a job at the library? I mean I know he wanted some things to be a surprise, but I never thought you could be so dense not to notice anything as big as that.”

“The guy's more sneaky than you give him credit for.”

“Apparently. Anyways, you should talk to him about it. But hey! How's it look?”

“Perfect,” Dean said absently as he gave one last look at the back yard.

“Wow.”

“What wow?”

“Nothing. Listen, Dean, talk to the guy. I gotta dash.”

“Yeah, I'll see ya later.”

The conversation over, Dean walked out to the front yard. Now that he'd seen what Cas could do and the plants he used, Dean tried to imagine what to do with the front. Maybe if they spruced it up with some pots, maybe some hanging flowers or something, he could add a seating area on the front porch. It might be nice to have some rockers to sit in while drinking beer in the evening. He was considering the aesthetic value of using some boulders when Cas came home.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean. What are you doing?”

“Just thinking about what we could do out here with some plants and stuff. I saw the back yard. You did a great job.”

“You're not mad? You like it? I was afraid that I overstepped my bounds.”

“Hell yeah, I like it. As for bounds, if I had known you wanted to try your hand at gardening I would have handed you a shovel myself.”

“You did mention not knowing much about it,” Cas said.

“Yeah, I guess I did. Though, I didn't know you went and got a job.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Charlie told you?”

“She did. Why didn't you?”

“I didn't know where to begin. I believe you would say it's a long story.”

Dean sat on the front steps and patted the spot beside him. “I've got time. Talk to me.”

Cas sat down awkwardly, his back too straight to be comfortable. “When I returned to the library after you showed it to me, I saw a cart full of books left in the shelves. There was only one woman, Muriel, who was working that day, and she was busy with a group of children, so I did the work for her. The organisational system is quite simple compared to others I've encountered, so it was easy for me to do quickly. While I did so, a young woman asked my help locating a book about diet cooking.”

Dean could see where this was going. “So you showed her?”

“Yes.”

“And Muriel noticed?”

“Some time later, yes. I continued to offer my help to her over the next few days since one worker was ill and another had recently quit. It was then that she asked if I would like a paid job.”

“But how did you manage it? People want ID papers and thing when they employ you.”

“Yes, she mentioned that, and I would have come to you, but Charlie was there that particular afternoon. She assisted me with my new human identity.” Cas pulled out a wallet and showed him the driver's license. Sure enough, there was one hell of a good fake ID with Castiel Godson printed on it. “She also taught me about upcycling when I expressed an interest in starting the garden.”

“Yeah, she would.”

“I'm sorry I didn't come to you earlier with this, Dean.”

“Hey, that's cool, Cas. It's okay for you to try out new things on your own. And like I said, I'm grateful for the garden. It looks awesome. How about we go to the nursery and pick out some stuff for the front too? Maybe we could even find something for those paths out back. They could use some stepping stones or something. And you've still got that beehive to finish.”

Cas smiled.

The nursery was on one of the far sides of town, tucked into a sleepy community of a few small houses and a mobile home park. Dean never thought there could be so many different plants in a desert, but he was most assuredly wrong. There were palms and pine trees, ferns and cacti, more colours of roses than days of the year, whirligigs and statuary, benches and pergolas.

“There's my favourite customer!” a woman's voice greeted them.

“Hello Daphne,” Cas said to the woman who accosted them. “This is my friend Dean.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean.” She said the words with a friendly smile, but her gaze turned immediately back to Cas. “What were you looking for today? I've got a new shipment of roses that you might want to look at.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dean said. He didn’t care for the way she was ignoring him. “Not really a roses kind of guy.”

“Perhaps you could consider...” Cas started, but Dean crossed his arms and frowned. “Perhaps not. They don't reflect your manly persona.”

“Well, maybe you'd like to look over here, Castiel.” Daphne led him away.

Dean stood there slightly stunned once more. Did Cas just make a joke at him? That little shit.

Dean was contemplating both Cas' humour and a setup of gravel and flagstone when the hairs on his neck stood on end. He was overcome with a feeling he had only felt on a few occasions, and it never meant anything good. Dean looked around. There were a few other customers and workers at the nursery. No one was out in the parking lot behind him. There was no reason to feel like someone was watching him. Alastair wasn’t there. And yet…

“Dean!” Cas called. “Come look at this.”

Dean re-joined them and found Daphne was standing a little too close to Cas. He knew Cas had a problem with personal space, but she was clearly the one initiating it.

“What do you think?” Cas asked him while pointing to some flowering shrubs.

“I like the ones you put in the back better,” he answered.

Cas nodded, and Daphne walked ahead to those shrubs.

“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas asked.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Peachy.”

“There's no danger here,” Cas said and put his hand on Dean's arm. The gesture was incredibly comforting. With a nod, Cas went to join Daphne.

Dean followed them around, nodding at this and that, saying no to anything he didn't like (and there was a lot that Daphne pointed to that he didn't like), and talking to Cas about what he did like. There were some palm trees they both wanted that Dean would have to borrow Bobby's truck to haul back home. Daphne was ever so obliging as to set them aside for their return.

When they were buying a few plants to start the front with, Daphne was smiling too much.

“Thank you for holding the date palms for us,” Cas said to her.

“Oh, it's no problem for a great customer like you. But if you'd like a date _now_ you could just hold out _your_ palm.” She held up a pen.

“These breeds of dwarf date palm don't produce fruit,“ Cas said with a frown.

Dean chuckled while Daphne looked embarrassed. He grabbed the plants and steered Cas out to the car.

“Why are you laughing, Dean?”

“Nothing. No reason. Just, don't ever change.”

* * *

 

The next day was Cas' day off, so they spent it together in the yard with shovels and bags of soil, hammers and weeding forks. Working alongside Cas was both awesome and troubling. He liked Cas, they got on well together… too well.

Being out in the sun gave Dean too much time with his thoughts. Over and over he turned in his head thoughts about how uncomfortable seeing Cas with Daphne had been for him. What reason was there for it? He had the same unfounded dislike for the woman when he went alone with Bobby's truck to pick up the trees. She had asked after Cas. Dean felt sure she would have asked more but was held back by politeness or professionalism. Either way Dean didn't care. He didn't want to answer anything she might ask.

But why?

He was protective of Cas, sure. But to deny him a possible hookup? There was one obvious answer. But no. It couldn't be. There was just no way. There was no reason for it, no way to explain how it happened. If it was the answer it meant he felt things that he clearly didn't feel. Nope, not one bit. Just no.

He was not jealous.

“Hey dudes! Need a hand?”

Dean looked up to see Charlie closing her car door and walking towards them. How had he not heard her pull up?

“Hey, Charlie,” Dean said in an effort to hide his surprise. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“I needed visual conformation that you two are alive and well. Gotta make sure you’ll be ready to be my handmaiden come LARPing season.”

“Handmaiden?” Dean asked.

“Dean isn’t a maid,” Cas said.

“Thanks, Cas,” said Dean.

“He’s had sexual partners before so by human standards he’s no longer virtuous enough to be called a maid.”

“I take the thanks back,” Dean grumbled while Charlie laughed herself silly.

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that,” Cas said.

“He can try. And you can’t say it isn’t true, Winchester,” Charlie said. “So how many past relationships _have_ you had?”

“Not gonna answer.”

“Oh, c’mon! We won’t even count one night stands!”

“I said no!”

“Not even the teensiest hint?”

“Would you just drop it!” Dean yelled.

There was silence. The joking tone of the conversation had abruptly soured. Dean went back to work in a sulky silence. Charlie helped Cas for a couple hours before leaving. He’d wanted to apologise before she went, but after moving from the front to the back yard he missed the chance.

He forced his attention on assembling the beehive. Cas came and started weeding on the other side of the back yard and adding in a few new pants. His dark hair was unkempt, curling from sweat. It was lighter now due to the time he was spending outside. His skin was darker too. Dean envied Cas' tan; he could only freckle. The tan was so much more handsome.

Handsome?

Dean inwardly groaned. He couldn't deny that he found Cas beautiful; it was why he had hung the painting in the first place. The beautiful man with the broken wings. It called to him, just as his growing feelings for Cas were calling his gaze constantly from his work back to the fallen angel.

Was it just a sexual attraction based on looks and lust?

No. It was more than that. Cas was so much more than that. It was his every quirk, from his love of documentaries to his obsession with books. His cluelessness of human behaviour, but his expertise in understanding Dean. He saw past the wall of bullshit Dean hid behind. He wanted to protect Dean. And most of all, Dean believed him. He trusted him. He just knew deep down that Cas was different from every relationship he’d had in the past, romantic or platonic. He could very well be falling in love with him.

Dean kept his newly discovered feelings to himself. He forged ahead with the work. They made good progress too. What was once a barren landscape surrounding the house was fast becoming a lovely oasis. After such a hard day's work, Dean collapsed into bed that night and quickly fell asleep. Unfortunately that sleep was not restful.

_The images of smoke, lights, and sweat flickered in front of him. The noxious potion of scents from colognes and fluids gagged him._ You’re cracked. _A tuneless beat assaulted his ears like frying pans hitting his brain._ Not right in the head. _Pain rammed into him from behind, pounding over and over, sharp like a knife yet heavy like a wet sack of sand. Hands pawed and wrenched over his body, twisting, jerking._ So pliant and broken. _Nausea like a hot potato jumping around his gut threatened to engulf him._ It’s where you belong. It’s who you are!

Dean woke from his nightmare, his head still pounding from the noise. It was so early in the morning that it was still night. He tossed and turned for the hours until he rose to fix some breakfast.

Cas came into the kitchen not long after. His hair was even more messed from sleep, his grumpy expression absolutely adorable as he reached for the freshly brewed coffee. Dean could almost smile at the picture he made. But Dean pushed the revelations from yesterday deep down. His dreams had reminded him that he couldn't act; he couldn't drag Cas down with his burdens. His past was out there waiting to attack him, and he just couldn’t force Cas into it.

* * *

 

Dean watched Cas go off to work. Today's task for Dean was finding the right stones for the walking paths in front and back of the house. A half hour outside of town was a place that sold those exact kinds of materials. Still borrowing Bobby's truck, Dean headed out there.

Luck was on his side when he discovered the perfect material at an unbelievably low price. Dean loved it, and he knew Cas would too. He loaded the truck full. Right when he was getting into the cab to drive back home, his phone rang.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“How's it going, brother?”

“Benny! It's been a while since I've heard from you.”

“Too long. Talk is you got yourself a roommate.”

“Charlie can't keep anything to herself,” Dean grumbled.

“Not when her girl is best buds with mine. Could we meet this fellow, or are you just going to keep him all to yourself?”

“It's not like I have the guy chained in my attic, Benny.”

“Kinky.”

Dean rolled his eyes while his Cajun friend laughed.

“What were you thinking?” Dean asked.

“Why don't you two stop on by the Roadhouse tonight? I promised Andrea a night out with friends. We'll eat, have a few beers, shoot some pool. What do you say?”

“Sounds great. If Cas agrees I guess we'll see you there.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then I'll be your uncomfortable third wheel for the evening.”

Benny laughed again. “Then I'll see you later.”

As it turned out, Cas was very agreeable to the suggestion of a night with Dean's friends. He was eager to meet them. His time in the library had been making him more comfortable around people, and it also had smoothed down his obvious “man out of his time” aura. He was still an odd duck, no mistake, but that was half of his charm.

“Well if it ain't the shorter, less good-looking Winchester brother,” Jo greeted them as they joined the table where she sat with Benny and Andrea.

“You know you want this,” Dean said with a hand motioning down his body.

Jo scoffed. “Sorry, dickwad, but I'm taken.”

“Where’s Charlie?” Dean asked.

“Not here, same as your manners,” Andrea teased. “Introduce us.”

“Oh right,” Dean said sheepishly. “Cas, this is the lovely Andrea.”

“And her even lovelier husband, Benny,” Benny interjected.

Dean ignored him. “And this disagreeable witch is Jo. Everyone, this is my buddy Cas.”

Cas nodded. “Hello.” He turned to Jo. “Are you Charlie's romantic partner?”

“That's me. Charlie's told me a lot about you. Says you're a good guy.”

“Charlie’s a wonderfully kind person,” replied Cas.

“Can I get an answer here: where is the almighty queen?”

“Game night,” Jo answered Dean. “I give her a pass every couple weeks to blow off a night with me for her online gaming. In return she'll come out to go shooting with me every now and then.”

“Well isn't that sweet, Annie Oakley,” Dean teased.

“Okay, that's enough,” Andrea said. “We didn't come here for a night of you two acting like bickering siblings. I don't often get a sitter, so I'd like to make the most of it. Why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Cas?”

Cas looked tense and wide-eyed at being so singled out.

“Oh, tell them about your job at the library,” Dean said.

Looking only marginally better, Cas went into the boring details of being a librarian. Being such a dull topic of conversation, it quickly turned the focus back on everyone else. Food was ordered and eaten while they caught up on work dramas and assorted local gossip. There were points when Dean could tell things were flying over Cas' head, so he would put a discreet hand on his arm to try and comfort him. He seemed to appreciate it.

Sometime after the meal and during a game of pool, Jo brought a tray from the bar full of glasses.

“Who's up for shots?” she asked mischievously. “I've brought the Four Horsemen.”

“Designated driver, Jo,” Benny answered.

“Ditto,” said Dean. He held up his beer bottle. “It's this one only.”

“Oh c'mon guys!”

“No way, Harvelle. I ain't risking Baby.”

“Fine. What about you, Cas? Or are you going to let us ladies drink alone?” Jo took a shot.

Cas looked uncertain and even more uncomfortable. All eyes were on him after Andrea did a shot as well. Cas squared his shoulders and took a shot. Then another. And again. All eyes were now wide with awe.

“I don't think I care for this alcohol as much as the Eastern European meads.”

Benny was chuckling and slung a large arm over Dean's shoulders. “You need to bring this guy out with us more often. Anyone who can take down Jo like that is too fun.”

Dean chuckled too while Jo tried to act indignant. Cas was staring at Dean and Benny with narrowed eyes. He took Dean's pool cue and started a game against Benny. Dean hung back and chatted with Andrea while they shared their attention between Cas and Benny's game, and the game Jo was being teased into by some other Roadhouse regulars.

No matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn't stop his eyes swinging back to Cas. Castiel was intent on the game. Benny was trying to strike up a conversation, but Cas' focus was strong as steel. Dean would have sworn that Cas didn't like Benny, but that seemed too farfetched. Why wouldn't he like the teddy bear from the south? Dean's attention to Cas broke when Jo won her game without the others getting in one shot. She was quick to challenge him, and Dean met it with gusto. He wasn't about to let Jo beat him. Their game was close. He might have won had his focus not changed again. Sudden loud laughter from Benny stole his concentration. While Cas looked icy before, now the two were warmly engaged and sharing some joke. Dean wished he had noticed what affected this alteration in tone.

“Ha! Beat you, Winchester!” Jo gloated.

“Wow,” said Andrea. “Beaten by a drunk girl. You feeling all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Shaddup.”

“Kicking a man when he's down, sugar?” Benny asked as he and Cas had finished their game and rejoined them.

“He asked for it,” Andrea replied with a shrug.

Jo took a bow. “It was fun, guys, but I better call it a night. Charlie's carpal tunnel has been getting a lot better lately, but I should stop her before she overdoes things.”

“We should probably go relieve the babysitter,” Andrea said and tugged Benny away with a wave.

“Another round, Cas?” Dean asked.

“Could we go home too?”

“Sure thing. Did you have fun tonight? I hope Benny wasn't too hard on you.”

“Billiards is a simple game of geometry.”

“Huh?”

“I beat him.”

“Way to go, man. Shit! I didn't even get to lord that over him.” Dean looked around the parking lot, but they had already pulled out. He and Cas got into the Impala and took off.

“Perhaps next time,” Cas consoled him. “He is very loving of his family. You never spoke about the sacrifices he's made for his child.”

“Lizzie? Yeah, well that's what a good parent does, I guess.”

“It's most admirable.”

“Yeah.”

“Charlie also is very lucky with her choice of partner.”

“So you're not bothered by it?”

“By what, Dean?”

“That they're two women, lesbians. I thought God was supposed to be pretty set against that. Old Testament judgement and so on.”

“Love is love,” Cas said after only a brief pause. “It's beautiful in all forms when sealed with true fidelity and trust.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Thoughts tumbled in Dean's brain. His newly discovered longing for Cas flared up from where he had stamped it down, but those shadows and scars from his past held fast. He wanted to kiss Cas just as much as to run away fast as he could.

“Something troubles you,” Cas stated. He waited for Dean to speak, but Dean gave him no reply. “If I had my grace I could read your mind. Not knowing what you're thinking is most frustrating. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong.”

“Listen, Cas, there are just some things that can't be said.”

“But if they need to be said? It isn't right to keep things in. You confided in me without reservation before.”

“You were a painting. You couldn't talk back. And it's more. There's stuff I don't think I could tell even painting you. Maybe it would help to get it off my chest, but I can't say it, Cas. I just can't.”

“Then write it.”

“What?”

“Isn't that why man learned to write? To express the things he couldn't say? If you wrote it you could expel the pain without fear of judgement. No one need read what you write. But expressing it outwardly will help you, Dean.”

Dean just nodded in the dark while the street lights flew by. When they arrived home Cas went straight to bed. Dean walked into the living room where he had left his laptop. He opened it, took a deep breath, and began to type.


	9. Confrontations

“Uh, Sam? Do you have a minute?”

Sam looked up from the papers on his desk. Kevin was hovering in the doorway.

“Yeah, Kevin, c'mon in. How's uh _that_ project going?”

“That's why I'm here,” said Kevin as he took a seat. “Thanks to Charlie and Ash I found a string of nightclubs and very illegal things that connect with the guy. Maybe. There isn't anything to criminally link Alastair to any of it. The guy's good. And by good I mean really bad.”

“Yeah, I got it. But I assume you've got more to tell me than just that.”

“Yes. I've been able to map out a pattern of where Alastair goes and crimes that follow. Since we can't link anything in the past, maybe we can use the pattern to predict what he's going to do, and then use that to catch him in the act.”

“Catch him red handed,” Sam said with a nod.

“Hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Or at least that's the idea.”

“That's good work, Kevin. I owe you, which is why I'll take it from here.” Kevin looked about to protest so Sam held up a hand and continued. “There's no need for you to take any more risks that might affect your future. You've done enough, more than I should have asked.”

“I can at least show you some surveillance equipment. I’ve got some good cameras.”

“Sure. That'd be great. Thank you.”

Kevin left Sam in a state of mixed emotions. On the one hand this was progress. They had a plan and an end was getting closer. On the other hand it looked like he was going to need the techniques his father had drilled into him for years, and that he had long since forsworn. It grated on him that he was going to use those skills. He had yelled at his father that tailing a car or getting through a stakeout were things he never needed to use in his life. What would John say if he could see Sam now?

Really Sam couldn't care less what his father would say. It was about family and looking out for Dean. But Sam had worked so hard to learn and uphold the law. Now he was just going to toss it out the window?

A small and wicked voice in the back of his head kept whispering that they could be wrong. Alastair wasn't guilty and they were stalking an innocent man. It was all one big coincidence. Dean's reaction could have been just because he owed Alastair money from gambling or hustled him at a game of pool.

Sam refused to listen to that voice. His gut told him Alastair was bad news and that Dean was in danger. With that firm resolution set in his mind he planned his stakeout.

The opportunity came when Jess had a girls' night out with her friends. With a little persuasion on his part he managed to have her schedule it when a shipment should be coming into Alastair's warehouse—assuming the pattern was correct. As soon as Jess had stepped out of the house, Sam grabbed his gear and got in his car. His office had handled the sale so he had blueprints and specifications that helped him pinpoint the best location to watch. He settled in with some audiobooks to pass the time and a borrowed long-lensed camera at the ready.

Cars passed as the night went on, but none pulled up to the building. A street light farther down the road flickered on and off irregularly. At one point there were the sounds of a cat fight echoing from one of the nearby alleys. More car lights went by, some fast, some slow.

Then a car parked behind him—a black and white car with bright swirling red and blue lights on top. Perfect.

“There a problem officer?” Sam said when his window was down and the cop leaned against it. And damn. It was Roy Nelson, the cop with the stick up his ass. He had a particular grudge against Sam for stopping Roy’s idiotic attempt to sue Bobby and set the IRS on the mechanic.

“Are you aware you've been sitting here for the whole hour I've patrolled these few blocks?” Roy asked. “Car troubles?”

“Well...”

“Sir, I'd like you to step out of the car.”

“Oh, c'mon Roy! This is ridiculous.”

“Out of the car now!”

Sam stepped out and Roy roughly turned him around and cuffed him.

“Seriously Roy?”

“Save it for the station, Winchester.”

Sam was seething on the way there. Just his luck to get caught by one of the town's finest assholes. Any other cop would have just told him to move on. But no, it had to be Roy. If this was a medieval village Roy would undoubtedly be the village idiot. He sincerely hoped Jody was on duty to sort this mess out and not Roy's buddy Walt, aka Deputy Andrews.

When they got to the station there was a bustle of activity. Jody was there. She was conversing with a black man in a suit that Sam didn't recognise. And by conversing he meant that the man was chewing out Jody for running extra patrols and ruining his investigation. Jody then yelled orders for the patrols to be pulled and the suit backed off. Jody headed towards Roy and Sam.

“Roy, why the hell are you dragging Sam Winchester in here in cuffs?” Jody asked.

“Caught him loitering by the warehouse down on Miller's Court.”

“And the cuffs?” she repeated.

“He resisted arrest.”

“I did not!” Sam protested.

Jody only dropped her head and sighed.

“Well, you can take the rest of the night off, Roy. The extra patrols are being pulled.”

“I'll finish processing this perp first,” Roy said.

“I'll take care of it.” Roy looked as if he was going to protest again, so Jody used her most intimidating and commanding voice. “Go home, Roy. You're done here for tonight.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said sourly.

“Bad night, Jody?” Sam asked when Roy was gone.

“Don't get me started,” Jody sighed. She removed the cuffs. “Bad enough I've got feds breathing down my neck. I don't need to deal with Roy too. At least it was just him. When it's him and Walt there's always a mess waiting to be fixed and headache for me to deal with. You can take off. Sorry for the… well…”

“Yeah, thanks, Jody.” He was turning to leave when the man in the suit stopped him.

“Are you just letting this man go, Sheriff Mills?” he asked. “Your officer did arrest him.”

“Roy would arrest someone for spitting their gum on the pavement,” said Jody. “I know Sam, and he's not a criminal whatever Roy says.”

“Nonetheless,” he said, “I'd like a word with this man.”

Jody shrugged her shoulders and gave Sam a sympathetic look. “Go for it.”

“Special Agent Victor Henriksen,” the man introduced himself. “FBI.”

“Sam Winchester. Lawyer.”

Henriksen didn't blink. “You want to tell me what a _business_ lawyer was doing loitering around the warehouse belonging to Alastair Kemmler? You're the one that sold him the property, aren't you?”

So Henriksen knew who he was. Sam refused to show surprise. “Unless you're charging me with something, Special Agent, I don't have to answer any of your questions.”

“No, you don't,” he said and held up his hands in surrender. But then the ease and smile on his face turned to cold stone. “But I'll find out. We're keeping an eye on Mr. Kemmler.”

“Good,” said Sam. He barely bowed his head in a farewell gesture and left the station. The plan to survey Alastair himself would have to be scrapped. He just hoped Henriksen was good enough to get the guy.

* * *

 

The price of that debacle of a night was picking up library books for Jess. She had a few wedding books on hold that had been transferred from other nearby libraries, but she didn't have time to pick them up. So Sam played the errand boy during his lunch break.

Walking into the library, Sam looked around for where the held books were kept.

“Can I help you find something?” a deep voice asked.

Sam turned and was just about face to face with a man in a blue and green paisley shirt with some serious bedhead. Sam took a step back from him. He wore the tag that all library workers displayed.

“I'm here to pick up some books my fiancée requested.”

“Name?”

“Sam. Oh, you mean her name. Jessica Moore. Or just Jess.”

“They'll be over here.” He smiled brightly. The man motioned for Sam to follow him. He pulled down some books from a shelf with paper-sheathed books all along it, the occasional group bound with a rubber band. “These are the books. It's self-checkout over there, but first you should look at the Excelsior series by David Jorgensen. I think you will enjoy those novels. Third row of shelves past the Charles Dickens poster, halfway down, second shelf from the top. I have to go, but it was very nice meeting you, Sam.”

With that the strange man walked away. Somewhat dazed, Sam followed the directions to the recommended books. He located the first in the series and read the back cover. Sure enough, it was exactly the sort of novel Sam would enjoy for light reading.

How in the hell did that guy know?

He was nice and polite, but Sam also got the impression that the man already knew him. And yet Sam had never seen him before. Recommended book still in hand, Sam went to find the mystery man.

It took a couple minutes to locate him in the children's section. He was seated with half a dozen children circled in front of him. He was reading a picture book to the kids with a dramatic delivery that had the room enchanted. The kids clearly loved his style. Maybe he just had that sort of magic touch that comes with experience, and that's how he guessed what book Sam would like. He seemed just a quirky, gentle soul. Sam didn't want to interrupt, so he left the mystery unsolved and went to the checkout desk.

As Sam approached his office minutes later Agent Henriksen stepped out.

“Mr. Winchester,” he greeted. “Just the man I was looking for. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Let's step inside.”

Sam double checked with Ava that he didn't have any clients coming in see him before leading Henriksen back to his private office.

“What can I do for the FBI?” Sam asked.

Henriksen raised his eyebrows and gave a slight smirk. “After meeting you the other night, I did my homework. As I thought, you've been looking into Alastair Kemmler. Or rather your intern has. Nice kid, Kevin.”

“He talked.” Sam didn't need to ask; it wasn't a question.

“Squealed like a pig. Sorry about that. But he's good. The information you've all pulled together is quite impressive.”

“Impressive enough to make an arrest?”

“I think you already know the answer is no,” Henriksen said. “Kemmler's one hell of a slippery fish. We _know_ he deals drugs, runs brothels, has prostitutes both willing and not, but we can't nail the guy with any of it. We've got sources out of the country that tracked down suppliers. Can't arrest them, it's out of our jurisdiction. And here we only get his goons, nothing more. The only way we'll bring him down is if one of his employees deep enough in the organisation testifies against him. But the damned thing is getting that witness. No one will talk, and if we get close to having one that will they die suddenly before we can get anywhere.”

“So why are you coming to me?” asked Sam.

“You think your brother's involved. So do we. He fits the general description we've got.”

“You think my brother dealt drugs for Alastair?”

“No, we think he worked in one of the more twisted of Kemmler's brothels. A few weeks back we raided a club in Chicago and found the basement housed facilities for men to indulge their darker lusts. A combination strip club and whore house with wall to wall BDSM, only there were no safewords if the client was the dom. Most of it you couldn't even call sex; it was rape and torture.”

“So Dean wasn't a bouncer?” An idea was in Sam's head but he couldn't believe it. He refused to look at it until Henriksen spelled it out.

“Kemmler had female prostitutes, most of them doms, but the main draw seemed to be his male subs. Big men forced to bend over and take it. Men like your brother.”

“Oh my god.”

“By the time we took it down Kemmler was long gone. But if your brother was there, if he knew that Alastair Kemmler was the owner or even just a partner, we need to talk to him.”

“Then why come to me?”

“We try to approach your brother and he's dead within the week. Right now, we're not _actually_ discussing it. I'm just talking to you about the property Kemmler bought and you're stonewalling me with lawyer-client privilege.”

“I'm… oh, right. So you want me to talk Dean into coming to you? And then what? You put him in protective custody and make the arrest?”

“Something like that. You think he'll do it?”

“I don't know,” Sam said softly. It was the truth. There was so much that he didn't know about his brother. This was all too much to believe. Dean a prostitute? For men? But John died in Chicago and Dean was there at the time. Dean knew Alastair. Oh god.

“Look, Sam, this is a bad guy. And I can't even get a warrant to raid his place. I need something. Anything.”

“I'll try.”

“Okay. Thanks, Sam.”

Agent Henriksen left. Sam sat in agonizing turmoil as his brain conjured horrible images of Dean in that place. Dean forced… forced to do that. How did it happen? How did his older brother get to be in a place like that? Suddenly he could see why Dean had been so touchy about the source of his money. If it had come from prostitution it was no wonder he didn't want Sam knowing a thing about it. But still. Did Dean do it just for the money? Was he forced?

It felt like everything he thought he knew was crumbling around him. Truth was shattered into confusion. The whole afternoon his mind was in pieces. Sam had to see his brother. Done for the day, not having done much work at all, Sam drove out to Dean's house.

Dean was outside laying flagstone in the front when Sam pulled up to the house. Dean didn't stop beating the plate tamper into the ground, but just kept working like Sam wasn't there.

“Uh, hey Sammy,” Dean said eventually. “What brings you round here?”

Sam couldn't beat around the bush with this one. His mind wasn't thinking fast enough for that, so he came straight to the point. “Alastair Kemmler.”

Dean scowled and turned away. “Told you I don't know the guy.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Leave it, Sam.”

“I can't do that, Dean.”

“I'm telling you I don't know him!”

“But I think you do, Dean! I think you worked for him in Chicago, the basement of his club. Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you didn't have sex for cash in that guy's horror house.”

Sam expected defiance and anger considering how he was yelling at his brother. He wasn't expecting the sob. Dean had gone from holding the tamper to leaning all his weight on the long shaft. Though there were no tears on his face, Dean looked wrecked. His breathing was uneven and hoarse. Sam rushed over to help Dean sit on the porch steps. With the harsh breaths Dean was muttering something. It sounded like he was saying “Cas” over and over. Sam gently pressed Dean down so his head was between his legs and rubbed his back.

There was no way Sam could ask his brother to face this monster in court.

“Why, Dean?” Sam asked quietly. “I don't understand. I won't judge you, but I've got to know why did you do it?”

Dean raised himself up enough to shake his head. “No,” he gasped.

“Fuck, Dean, look at you! This isn't right. You've got to talk to me. I can't pretend like none of this ever happened. I can't get these horrible images I have out of my head. It's like I don't know you anymore. There's this chasm pushing us apart, and I can't stand it. I wanna be here for you, but if you can't let me in...”

“Then go,” Dean said quietly.

“I'm not leaving you like this.”

Dean sat up slowly with more control over his breath. “Just go, Sam.”


	10. Resolution

Dean was having a perfectly fine day. He'd been splitting his time between writing and working in the yard. Forcing the memories and feelings he'd rather forget onto the page was painful, but bleeding out that pain meant he could feel better. Sort of. In theory, anyway. He wasn't sure of the effects, so when it was too much he threw himself into the hard labour of preparing and laying down the new flagstone paths.

He had gone through a particularly rough patch of writing, forcing himself to get it all out in one go and finish that day. By the time he had disembowelled that memory he rushed out to work while there was still light. Afternoon was fast fading into evening, but he needed to work himself numb. Every emotional nerve was too raw.

Naturally with him suffering such inner agony his brother would show up. He waited for Sam to make the first move, but he didn't say anything.

“Uh, hey Sammy,” Dean said eventually. “What brings you round here?”

“Alastair Kemmler.”

_Pain. Stabbing, twisting, jerking._ “Told you I don't know the guy.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Leave it, Sam.” _The beat smashing in his head._

“I can't do that, Dean.”

“I'm telling you I don't know him!” _The cursor blinking on a white page. The truth in text no matter how many lies spew from his mouth._

“But I think you do, Dean! I think you worked for him in Chicago, the basement of his club. Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you didn't have sex for cash in that guy's horror house.”

He couldn't breathe. All of the past splattered over him like acid. He couldn't stop it. He clung to the tamper in his hands, his only anchor as his muscles lost control in the storm of panic. Every fibre in him shook. As Sam moved him to the porch steps Dean's vision blurred and rocked side to side, forward and back. He knew these feelings but he didn't know how to stop them.

Cas. He needed Cas. Breathing between his legs was no help. Where was Cas?

Sam was talking again, and Dean tried to make out the words. “I've got to know why you did it.”

No, no, no, no. He couldn't. He couldn't tell his brother what he had done. He just couldn't. Dean saw before him little Sammy and his eyes looking up at his big brother. Worshipping, proud, innocent eyes. Dean took care of Sammy. He wouldn't drag him down. He couldn't bear to see those eyes look at him with disgust and blame. Dean raised himself up enough to shake his head. “No,” he gasped.

“Fuck, Dean, look at you! This isn't right. You've got to talk to me. I can't pretend like none of this ever happened. I can't get these horrible images I have out of my head. It's like I don't know you anymore. There's this chasm pushing us apart, and I can't stand it. I wanna be here for you, but if you can't let me in...”

“Then go,” Dean said quietly.

“I'm not leaving you like this.”

Dean sat up slowly with more control over his breath. “Just go, Sam.”

Dean couldn't watch. Head on his knees he listened to his brother's footsteps, slow and hesitant. A huff of breath and the car door opened. It slammed shut and the engine ignited. Tires rolled over dirt and pavement.

Slowly Dean stood and put his tools away. The rest of the path would wait for another day. Coming in a side door, Dean heard Cas and his bike at the front. He walked into the front hall to meet him.

Cas looked up from putting books on the side table when Dean approached. “Hello Dean.”

Finally a flood of calm washed over Dean. He let out a nervous laugh and an almost silently muttered, “Fuck me.”

“Are you feeling all right, Dean?” Cas asked. He stepped into Dean's personal space to peer at him closely.

“I'm not writing anymore,” Dean vowed. “It's too much. I can't handle all these memories. It's not doing anything other than bringing them to the front of my mind.”

“I'm sorry,” Cas said softly. “I thought it might help, but if not you needn't continue.”

His comforting presence and the heat from his body was too much. Cas' hair was even more tousled than usual from the wind and sweat during his bike ride home. His bright blue eyes were narrowed so adorably in concern. Fuck it, it was just too much. Dean pulled him tight into a hug.

“Oh Dean,” Cas said to his shoulder. “I… I wish I could heal you.”

“You do, Cas,” Dean said as he still clung to his angel. “You really do.”

It took a few moments for them to finally pull apart. Dean mumbled something about getting dinner ready, and Cas followed him to the kitchen. Looking through cupboards and the fridge, Dean decided to reheat leftovers. Cas leaned against the counter looking glum.

Dean didn't know what to say. He had to comfort Cas just as much as Cas did for him. It was only fair. Cas missed being able to heal, but he did heal things. He healed him. Didn't he notice how fast Dean had recovered from the injuries sustained in that stupid relapse of bounty hunting? Didn't he see…

“Oh,” Dean said.

“What?”

“Oh. Shit. Cas, you do heal.”

“I know you want me to feel better...”

“No, don't you get it. You heal people, Cas. You've healed me before. The moment we met… well, in the flesh met… woah, not in the flesh… I mean there was a lot of flesh… Fuck, I need to stop saying that word. When you were freed from the painting, I was...”

“Panicking?”

“Stressed. You fixed it. You know you did. And then after the fight, I healed way faster than I should have. Just one night and it was a few days' worth of healing.”

“Dean…”

“And then there's Charlie! Jo, Jo mentioned Charlie's carpal tunnel was better. Knowing Charlie, it wasn't because she cut down her gaming time or remembered her wrist brace. You did that. And how much do you want to bet me that those kids at the library are better too. And the plants outside! No garden could be this amazing in the middle of a desert if it wasn't for you. You heal, Cas.”

Cas didn't look wholly convinced.

“You can't deny it. Don't you dare. You've… you've come into my life and made it so much better. I… I need you, buddy. I need you so much.”

Cas frowned in thought. Then he walked up to Dean, took Dean's face in his hands, and pulled him into a kiss. Only caught off guard for a moment, Dean eagerly reciprocated and wrapped his arms around his angel. Fuck breathing, Dean wanted to keep kissing Cas forever. Oh, those perfect lips. But he pulled away with a laugh when he heard Cas' stomach rumble.

“I believe we should eat before we continue kissing,” Cas said in his very matter-of-fact way.

“Yeah, let's get some grub in you before you starve to death,” Dean said with a smile. He dished out some leftover casserole to put in the microwave. “So, um, does this mean you like me?”

“Dean, I have loved you since the first moment you removed the sheet.”

“Sheet? Oh, the one covering the painting?”

“Yes.”

Dean watched the turntable spin the food in the microwave. “You're crazy. How could you fall for someone like me? I'm a wreck. I'm broken inside.”

“As are my wings,” Cas replied. Dean still shook his head. “If I do heal as you say I do, and if you are as broken as you say you are, perhaps I should stay at your side until you are entirely healed.”

“Yeah, that sounds… that sounds nice.” He kissed Cas slowly and chastely. The microwave beeped.

“Food, Dean,” Cas mumbled against his lips.

“Right,” Dean said pulling away again. He retrieved the food and divided in onto two plates. They ate in a pleasant silence, their free hands linked together over the table. Despite all the pain of that afternoon, all the torment and agony, he felt lighter now than he ever had before. Returning to the computer to finish his story no longer felt like an excruciating torture. He wanted to finish the story. “You know, Cas, that idea about writing? I think maybe it's helping a little. I'll give it another try.”

“I'm glad.”

The meal over, Cas pulled Dean upstairs to bed. No argument was made when Cas slipped into Dean's bed beside him. Pride be damned, Dean had never felt better than being the little spoon in Cas' arms.

But while his body felt relaxed, his mind was anything but. It refused to end its loop of words and sentences. Just that morning he had forced himself to the computer, but now it was pulling him back. After a few hours thinking, dozing in and out of blurred dreams, Dean slipped out of bed.

* * *

 

In a fever, Dean kept typing for hours. When he wasn't at work, Cas would sit close to Dean with a book, or a T.V. program muted in the background. There was an instinct to it, as if he knew when Dean was working through a particularly trying part, and Cas would appear just when Dean needed him most. And it was Cas that dragged him away for the necessities of food and sleep. More than ever Dean could believe Cas was an angel: that amount of patience wasn't human. But the dam was cracked and spewing out faster than Dean could type the words. Finally he was getting catharsis. He couldn't stop now.

After three days it was done. Dean had released the demons of his past to the page. But they still pulled at him, screamed in his head with shrill, bleeding voices. A small part of his own voice in the back of his head whispered how to stop them.

Share the story. Break the bonds and leave it in someone else's keeping.

Dean didn't listen to the voice.

He tried going back to the story, see if he left anything out. He hadn't. But there was one flaw, one weak point. The ending lacked a true conclusion. It felt empty, shallow and devoid of resolution. Again he looked over the story, each time reading it through a little easier than before, but the answer eluded him.

“Hey Cas,” Dean asked one day as they were sitting together on the couch, “how do you end a story?”

Cas looked up from his book and paused in thought. “Children's fairy tales just put in a wedding and a happy ever after. What's wrong is righted. Or everyone simply dies. Generally a more sophisticated conclusion echoes the beginning in some way. It closes like a circle.”

“Huh.”

“Does that help, Dean?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you referring to your own work?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. Uh… would you read it and see?”

“No, Dean.”

“What? Why not? You're the one who told me to write it down in the first place. You read anything, but I guess if mine isn't up to the quality...”

Cas put a finger over Dean's mouth to silence him. “That story is your past, a past you want to leave behind. It's a part of you, but I don't need to read it to see your soul. I don't need to know everything. I love the man you are because of it, and that's enough for me.”

Dean nodded. It made sense. Moving forward with Cas meant leaving the past behind, forgetting those awful nightmares in the club. He didn't want Cas to suffer that too. He was his future.

But there was someone else affected by that past. Someone he cared for just as deeply and had been injured by it. If Dean truly wanted to paint over the past, someone else had to know. Not what had happened, but why it happened.

Dean needed to show it to Sam.

The next day was a Sunday. Sam wouldn't be working, so the timing was perfect. Putting it off would only make things worse. Dean copied the manuscript to a flash drive and drove to Sam's house. He was never a praying sort of man, but before he exited the car he sent a silent plea to Castiel's Father for strength to see this through. When Dean knocked on the front door, Sam opened it.

“Dean.” The shock on his face turned into a wary frown.

“Hey, Sammy. Uh, can I come in? I've got some stuff I want to talk about with you.”

“Yeah, c'mon in.” Sam led him into the den. He sat without inviting Dean to do the same.

Dean sat anyways. “Uh… shit. I guess I'm here to apologise for saying what I did the other night. You know… things about my past. You've got questions. That's understandable. But I can't say it, Sammy, I just can't.”

“Dean...” Sam started angrily.

“No, I can't _say_ them, so I _wrote_ them instead.” Dean handed the flash drive to Sam. “There's a file on there that has the whole damn thing. Every reason I fucked my life to hell. It's all there. I want you to read it. Please, just read it.”

Sam took the drive with a nod. His laptop was there in the room, so Dean stood and left. Who knew how long it would take Sam to read it all, and Dean didn't want to be around to see his reactions. Instead he went in search of Jess and found her in the kitchen.

“Hey, Dean!” she greeted warmly.

“Jess.”

“What brings you round here? I assume you saw Sam?”

“Yeah, just brought something to mend some bridges.”

“Oh I'm glad. He really loves you, and it's been killing him to have this rift between you.”

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “Me too. Fuck, listen to me. Why don't you tell me what's going on with you? How are you?”

Jess' prattle was a welcome distraction. Yet that distraction was short lived. In the other room Sam was reading everything Dean worked so hard to hide from him. The pool hustling that worked so much better when Dean played up his barely legal twink look and teased the men. The propositions he received and turned down. At first. Pool hustling and gambling only made so much, and John wasn't bringing home enough cash to sustain his drinking, two growing boys, and Sam's dreams of going off to college. So Dean took men up on some of those advances, learned how to please them with his hands and mouth. Back alleys, rank bathroom stalls, anywhere Sam or John wouldn't happen upon him.

Dean didn't stay long talking to Jess. The longer he stayed the heavier he felt. He bid her goodbye and headed home. As he drove he knew that what Sam was reading was only going to get worse.

When Sam left without needing Dean's savings, Dean cut down on getting men off for cash. He only took the occasional offer that came his way if he felt like it. Money came just from gambling and hunting—just like his father. It was a fool's dream, but there were moments that Dean hoped he could use his savings to put his father through rehab, get him some help, and try a normal life for once. If wishes were horses, wasn't that the cliché?

Dean parked his car in the garage and walked inside the house. Sam would be getting to the worst part.

Chicago. John died and Dean went to hell. Alastair came up to him when Dean was attempting to drink himself into oblivion. He offered another way to wash away the unwanted feelings and to make some money while he did. Dean was so out of his mind with grief and alcohol that he barely paused before agreeing. And so it started. Acts he never dared to do before he was put through daily. The physical pain and degradation was a lucrative distraction, just as Alastair had promised. Dean brought in a lot of money; Alastair could afford a generous paycheck. But the whole thing was also a nightmare.

It took the accident to shake him free. Driving to his apartment after long hours and an especially rough customer, Dean was too tired to avoid the collision. Really it was the other driver's fault, but had Dean been more aware of his surroundings the damage wouldn't have been so bad. After being released from the hospital, more battered than seriously injured, Dean paid a man to haul him and the Impala to Indianapolis where he restored his baby. Not having anything but a gaping hole in his life, Dean decided to find Sam.

And that was the story. The end was all up to Sam now.

* * *

 

Dean didn't hear from Sam that day or the next. Cas made sure to keep Dean occupied, mostly with makeout sessions on the couch. Dean hesitated taking it further, but luckily patience was one of Cas' best virtues. The intimacy between them at that time was enough. Yet not even sex with Cas would have distracted Dean the next day, and the day after that, with still no word from his brother.

“I knew it! He hates me.”

“He doesn't hate you,” Cas consoled him.

“He blames me then. It was all my own damned fault. Dean, the fucking idiot. And don't give me that look. Maybe he doesn't _blame_ me, but that just means he's ashamed of me. He's too ashamed to call me family.”

“Never,” Cas said vehemently. “I know you, Dean Winchester, and I know a little of your brother. From everything you've said about Sam I know he would never be ashamed of you.”

“Then why hasn't he talked to me?” Dean took a few deep breaths when Cas couldn't answer. “Fuck, I sound like some jilted girlfriend.”

“I can assure you, you are no girl.” Cas folded his arms around Dean. “Just give him some time.”

“Yeah, yeah, patience. When do I get that?” Dean sighed. “Are you at the library this afternoon?”

“Yes. Do you want me to call and see if someone will replace me?”

“No, no it's fine. Besides, you love it too much.”

“I love you more, Dean.”

“Really, I'm fine. Go to work, Cas.”

“I've got a couple hours yet.” Cas raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“I like the way you think, but some other time?”

“Of course, Dean.”

After Cas left, Dean sat spinning his wheels watching T.V. for a couple hours. Then he picked up one of Cas' books. Some giant text on world religions. Oh the irony. Dean laughed at the description of angels. If only the author knew his angel. Then again, no one would believe it. Dean could write a textbook with the information about angels from Cas and the world would see it as an epic work of fiction.

Dean heard a knock at the door. Sam's knock.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean greeted softly when he opened the door.

“Hey. Can I...”

“Yeah, c'mon in.” Dean led him into the living room. Dean motioned for Sam to sit on the couch and was about to sit in one of the chairs. He was stopped by Sam's crushing hug.

“I'm so sorry, Dean,” he said. “I'm just so sorry.”

“Me too, Sammy,” Dean said returning the hug. They eventually parted and sat down.

“Wow, this is super comfortable,” Sam said, sinking into the cushions.

“I know, right?”

Sam shook his head. “I've been so stupid. I've been pushing you away for so long.”

“Sam...”

“No, let me say this, Dean. You should have been able to come to me when Dad died. You should have been able to do at least that much, but I put all that distance between us. Fuck, even when you come back into my life I shove you away because of something so ridiculously stupid as money.”

“It's...”

“I haven't finished. Ever since you came back I've felt so guilty for what I did, what I put us through. And now, knowing what you did… for me? God, Dean, I… I had to make it right. That's why I haven't come before now. I _had_ to fix things. You did all that for me, so now it was past time I did the same for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't hate me, but I gave the information from your book to an FBI agent in town trying to bring in Alastair. There was no way you were going to go through testifying and a trial and witness protection. And I wasn't gonna let them pull the old 'if he doesn't testify he'll be prosecuted for prostitution' either. No way. So instead we agreed to use the written testimony as a kind of anonymous tip, tracked down some other evidence in Chicago based on your account, and he got the warrant to raid Alastair's new place on that. And some other stuff. But the point is they finally had a judge sign off on raiding the place.”

“Yeah? What'd that do?”

“Again, it's why I'm here so long after I read your story. Agent Henriksen raided the warehouse. There were drugs and a set up for a brothel worse than the one you worked in.”

“Worse?” Dean scoffed.

“You got paid,” said Sam. “Anyways, you won't have to worry about Alastair anymore. During the raid some gunshots went off, there was a stand-off, and now he's in a body bag in the county morgue.”

Dean slumped in his chair, too shocked to sit upright any longer.

“They got him, Dean. They really got him. It's all over. You don't have to worry about him following you anymore. Dean? Should I get you a drink?”

“No, I'm fine, Sammy. Just trying to let it sink in. The fucking bastard's really dead? Do you know he had the nerve to say he hadn't even followed me here? That it was just a coincidence?”

Sam looked hesitant. “Well, it kind of was. From his files this was just an ideal spot for sending deliveries from across the border. I don't think it was until he met me that he knew you were in the area.”

“So I just imagined that he was out to get me?”

“Not quite, no. The feds had a tail on Alastair, but he always slipped it. When they figured you were connected to him they put surveillance on you too. Alastair was following you. I guess what started as a coincidence he took as an opportunity.”

“But it's really over.”

“Yeah, Dean, it really is.”

“I'd say this calls for a beer. You drinkin?”

“Yeah,” answered Sam.

They walked to the kitchen and then Dean took them out on the back deck.

“Wow, Dean, this is amazing? Did you do all of this?”

“Nah, did some heavy lifting at the end, but the rest is all Ca...” Dean stopped when he heard the front door open and close and books fall on a table. Cas was home. Dean called through the kitchen, “Hey, Cas! We're back here!”

“Cas?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. “Cas, come and meet my brother. Sam, this is Cas.” Dean scooted past Cas back in the kitchen to grab him a beer too.

Sam's eyes widened. “You're the guy from the library.”

“It's nice to see you again, Sam,” said Cas.

“So _you're_ Cas. Um, this is...”

“Unexpected?” Dean supplied. “I can one up that. Cas and I are a couple.”

“A couple of what?”

Dean just grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh.”

“Go on, let me have it. Your brother's a queer.”

“What? No. What I was going to say is that this is awesome! I'm so happy for you, Dean.”

“Oh, um, great. I was expecting a little more surprise.”

“Yeah, you kind of ruined those chances when you told me you were a prostitute.”

“Hey!”

“I believe Sam is making a joke,” Cas said.

“I know,” said Dean. “It's cuz he's a little shit.”

“Hey Cas,” said Sam. “Congratulations on the garden. It looks amazing.”

“Thank you. Dean, now that your brother knows, perhaps we could have him and Jess over for dinner one night.”

“That sounds like a great idea. What do you say, Sam? You gonna bring the future missus over for some chow?”

“Dude, of course. After all, you owe us for bringing you here in the first place.”

“That I do.”

They sat talking for a long while. Sam was the one person who found the details of Cas' job fascinating, and vis-versa. Dean was too happy that his angel and his brother were getting along so well to be really bored. A little bored, yes. He was only human. Despite that it was all too soon before Sam had to return home.

Sam hesitated with his goodbyes. “There's one last thing I should mention.”

“What?” Dean asked. “Don't tell me Jess is pregnant.”

“No, it's not that. It's just… Your writing is really good, Dean. Like insanely good. I sent a small portion to my roommate in college—he's a book editor now—and he's willing to publish your story.”

Dean's mouth dropped open as he stared at Sam.

“I mean, you don't have to or anything, but he sounded super eager about seeing more and talking to your agent. I know you don't have an agent, but he could recommend one. What do you think? Dean?”

Dean's expression didn't change.

“You could change the names, say it was only based on real events and not say they were yours. Shit, you could even have a pen name too.”

Dean closed his mouth and thought it over. After a few moments he turned to Cas. “Seriously?”

“I think it's a wonderful idea,” Cas said. “Perhaps this is the ending you need to let it go.”

“Nah, that… that ending I got.” Dean looked at Sam. “I'll think about it.”

“That's great, man. And hey, if you do become a published author I can't bug you about money anymore. It's normal for a writer to be a starving artist.”

Dean glared at his brother who went away laughing. It was certainly better than any of their previous partings.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Are you all right?”

“Never better.” And for once it was the truth.


	11. Epilogue

“Uh, hi everyone. I'm Dean, the brother of that Sasquatch of a groom over there. I'm not one for speeches, but I'm the only brother Sam's got so everyone is stuck with this. Sam tried to tell me to just keep it short, mention some little story of how we grew up with no mom and an absent father, say some inspirational quotes—he gave me a list of them, the big nerd—and under no circumstances swear in front of the children here today. But I decided I'm not gonna do any of that.

“Everyone here pretty much knows Sam. Sure, I could give you about a hundred embarrassing stories about him. I could tell you about the time he dressed as Batman, rode his bike off the roof, and broke his arm. The problem with telling you that story is that I was dressed as Superman and had done the same thing just moments before. Without injury. Of course I could say that Superman flies and Batman doesn't, so he should have known it was a stupid idea, but then he'd just counter that Batman has a cool gadget on his toolbelt to turn the bike into a jet or something. The point is, every embarrassing story about Sam that I know is just as embarrassing for me.

“I guess that's just part of being brothers. We've had our ups and downs, but I've always been proud of my little Sammy. His good grades, his full scholarship to Stanford, his success as a lawyer, his awesome choice of wife. Jess once asked me if I was ever jealous. Not a chance in hell. No one ever complained that I wasn't more like my brother. He'd probably say it was the other way around. Which is the worst idea in the world.

“Sam is genius smart, generous, kind, brave, and the best man I know. I may be the best man in this wedding party, but any other day the title belongs to him.

“Jess, you are one hell of a lucky woman. And awesome in your own right. He's lucky to have you. I don't think there's a couple I've met that is more perfect for each other than you two. As your family has come into town for this wedding, there's been a lot of joking about having this moose of a man's giant kids, and if you're up for that. One, I'm telling everyone right now that you are, and two, I'll let everyone in on a secret. Sam was the smallest kid in school until his sophomore year of high school. Then he got obsessed with vegetables and just shot up like a weed. God, he was awkward. So kids, you wanna grow up to be that tall—eat your vegetables.

“Well, I can see Sam rolling his eyes, so I'm gonna wrap this speech up. To the happy couple! I _swear_ you're gonna be great together.”

Dean held up his glass and the whole room did the same. The toast drunk, Dean hugged his brother and sister-in-law and returned to his seat beside Cas. Jess' sister and maid of honour was standing to give her speech, but Dean's mind wandered. The reception was an amazing culmination of style and beauty, naturally due to Jess' good taste. The wedding ceremony itself had been quite beautiful. He refused to admit that tears had fallen from his eyes, but from Charlie's mad grin he suspected she had the whole thing on video. Whatever. People were supposed to cry at weddings, weren't they? Shut up.

All the toasts finished and conversation resumed at the tables. The bride and groom were sitting with the bride's family. Dean was more than happy at a table with Cas, Charlie, Jo, Ellen, and Bobby.

“So Dean,” Ellen said. “What are you up to these days?”

“I'm working on a couple novels,” he answered. “Nothing special.”

“He's being modest,” Cas said. “His first book has been very successful.”

“Plus there's that short story that you just published,” Charlie chimed in. “Very Vonnegut meets Neil Gaiman.”

Charlie was referring to a piece he had written about an angel that braves all Hell to pull a righteous man free. It was received as fantasy, but Dean wrote it as a metaphor. It was of course about Cas and his influence on Dean's life. Dean had made sure that Castiel was the first to read it. Cas had added the bit about being righteous.

“I know it's not much,” he had said.

“It's wonderful, Dean.”

“Maybe one day I'll write a novel about an angel trapped in a painting. That is if you ever tell me how that happened.”

“It's a rather boring tale. I made friends with humans, yes; that wasn't a horrible crime despite being frowned on. But I also befriended a demon. She had a thorny beauty unlike any I had met.”

“A demon? Do I need to be jealous?”

“Never. You're the only one I've given my love to.”

Dean had turned slightly red. “Yeah, well. Maybe I'll change things in the story then. Make it less 'boring.' Because I'm not sure about breaking the curse either. You said it was because I needed you?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“But I’m sure there were others that needed help from an angel. Why didn't that set you free?”

Cas had seemed puzzled by it too, but he didn't have an answer.

* * *

 

Cas watched from his seat as Dean danced with Jody. The sheriff had dragged Dean to the dance floor despite his protests. And yet for all that he was obviously having a good time. Cas liked seeing him so happy and carefree.

The months since Alastair's death hadn't been easy. Dean still dreamed of that terrible place. Cas knew because he would automatically wake every time it happened and hold Dean close until the terror left. They never spoke about it, and they didn't need to. It was Sam who eventually gave Cas the details, not realising he didn't know everything already. Cas had never understood why humans said their hearts could break—an interior organ didn't just split into pieces because of emotion. That was what he thought before. Now he knew better. He wished in that moment more than any other that he could have been the one to destroy that man.

But things were getting better. The man was dead, and Dean was healing. It was slow, but there was a day when he stopped looking over his shoulder whenever he left the house. The nightmares were becoming less frequent too. Now Dean could enjoy this momentous occasion with out the burdens of his past.

“Aw, ain't that adorable,” a voice next to him said.

Cas turned to face the person he hadn't heard sit beside him. He was short with sandy hair and similarly shaded eyes. The outside form was new to Castiel, but he recognised the being within.

“Gabriel,” he said.

“How's it hangin, little bro?”

“What are you doing here? How is this possible?”

“What?” Gabriel said. “You think you're the only angel to choose Earth over Heaven? Sure, you take the trophy for being the oddest duck of the lot, but you're not alone, Castiel.”

“Perhaps you can answer a question for me.”

“Shoot.”

“What released me from my curse? I thought it was because Dean needed me, but then he pointed out that there were others before that needed me—maybe needed me more. And are my powers truly gone? I need to know...”

“Woah, slow down, bro.” Gabriel held up his hands. “That's way more than one question. But I love ya so sure I'll answer it all. It wasn't the need of hotlips over there that let you loose, it was _your_ need. You made that choice yourself. That curse works fine for a disobedient warrior who feels like he has to be punished. But as soon as you were just a man in love? Wham! The evil mojo has ended. So the answer is that you freed you. And yeah, you've got a tiny bit of angel juice left. Not enough to make you immortal again or regrow your wings, but enough for the minor little miracle. It's cuz of that big heart of yours.”

“Why can't I feel it?”

“The Gates are closed. Heaven, Hell, it's over for them. Now earth is all about mankind. Great, isn't it?”

They both looked out at the crowded dance floor and saw all the humanity rejoicing in celebration. Cas smiled. “Yes.”

“Well, I'll see you around, little bro. I got things to do and places to be. Don't be a stranger.”

Gabriel disappeared before Castiel could point out that there wasn't a way for Cas to contact him. But that was typical of Gabriel. The music changed and Dean returned from his dance.

“Hey Cas, what's with the funny look?”

“I was just admiring humans. Their capacity for love and enjoyment. I understand why our Father favoured them.”

“Yeah?” Dean asked with some scepticism.

“Yes, Dean. I'm forever grateful that I'm free of that painting and able to share in that love.”

They were silent for a few moments. Dean cleared his throat. “You know I love you too, right? I know I haven't really said it...”

“I know, Dean. Words that are spoken fail you. You say it every day with what you do.”

“And what I write. Maybe I could write it for you.”

“Yes, maybe. I can give you more details for your book about the angel with the broken wings.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, Dean. They aren't so broken now.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was inspired by the song _Broken Wings_ by Mr. Mister, and Dean's dedication page is taken from the song. Come see me on [tumblr](http://ladydemacabre.tumblr.com/).


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